I sit with my head in the meadow and compare it to the stones
In my biography I own a home
I associate my home with pleasant feelings
In my biography I am very sleepy
I go sit on a stump and a log
Sometimes for days I am moving
I weep all night for my child
In my biography epaulets grow in sorrow
I braided them myself the golden worms
And I am a horse owner I own a horse
In my biography we are an island
Food arrives and news and ammunition
Very slowly I move to the cellar
What I have buried there I still adore