My mother strummed the harp
In many a night.
Golden, the strings laughed
Under her hand.
But a fine string once
Cried out. That sounded like pain.
And at that she grasped at her heart,
Under which [I, her baby] slept full of dreams.

For a long while already, Mother's harp
Stood untouched. Only some nights
My father, mute and introspective,
Stepped up to it when he couldn't sleep.
But once the full moon shone in
Through bare branches.
And then he couldn't help himself,
He touched the strings:
Again it sounded in sweet trembling
And in unimaginable misery.
And after a month his hands 
Lift[ed] me into life,
And my mother, she lay dead.

Since that winter my hands often reached
Out of the cradle for my mother's hand
And grasped empty air and cold walls,
Until I, still a boy, found her harp!