The poem
Strange violin, why do you follow me? In how many foreign cities did you speak of your lonely nights and those of mine. Are you being played by hundreds? Or by one?
Do in all great cities men exist who tormented and in deep despair would have sought the river but for you? And why does your playing always reach me?
Why is it that I am always neighbor to those lost ones who are forced to sing and to say: Life is infinitely heavier than the heaviness of all things.