I dig a hole now once or twice,
Wherein that hole I somber hide.
From all the troubling symphonies,
And how it shrieks and shakes and pleas

And when I dig that hole so wide,
But also shallow for me to hide,
I leave the top uncovered there,
With no protection, I am bare.

So bare that one may still so touch
And comfort the mind becoming rough.
But left exposed without care,
A blackened heart will desist there.

And when the birds and sky and earth,
Hear not the drumming that once occurred,
The stone-so heavy in my chest,
Draws down the earth; deeper yet.

And once it goes it will not stop:
That bleating song for why it drops.
Th’ abyss it makes goes further on
Forever more; continually withdrawn.

And why it can continue so,
To the notes so high but the words so low?
For the ditch I dug to that doleful tune,
Had adjoined not with the ground’s slight hewn.

Instead the hole uncovered,
Was from there which first tears were shed.
I died not from the harsh and wind,
I died, in fact, from the hole within.