ALL day I think about it, then at night I say it,

Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?

My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that, and I intend to end up there.

This drunkeness began in some other tavern. When I get back around to that place, I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile, I'm like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.

The day is coming when I fly off, but who is it now in my ear, who hears my voice? Who says words with my mouth? Who looks out with my eyes?

What is the soul?

I cannot stop asking.

If I could taste one sip of an answer, I could break out of this prison for drunks. I didn't come here of my own accord, and I can't leave that way.

Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.