Upon the streets I wish to throw
My bleeding heart.
The birds may have it;
I shall view them with equanimity,
The crows and the ravens, 
And shall still force myself to jest.
Upon the streets I wish to throw
My bleeding heart.

Thus it shall nevertheless be torn apart
By my will.
Be it then be separated into
Vain trumpery with my consent,
When it shatters into splinters
It shall yet retain some semblance of itself.
But it shall then be torn
Apart with my will. 

Must it not rue me now,
The long, rigorous care?
Why save so anxiously,
When others are able to be happy?
Why cherish my heart
Like a treasure entrusted to me?
Must it not rue me now,
The caution and the care?

In order now to squander it
Upon her, who never comprehends it,
Who, causing me a thousand pains,
With clumsy hands
Now reaches for my heart as well
As if it were any other play-thing,
Must I then thus squander my heart
After it has come to maturity?

Through my heart, hitherto whole,
A crack has already opened.
It is now bewitched already,
No longer in its original radiance,
Therefore, it might as well be utterly destroyed
Now; what does it matter anymore?
Through my heart, hitherto whole,
A crack has already opened.

Yes! Upon the streets I wish to throw
My bleeding heart.
The birds may have it.
When my soul has departed,
You may bury my body.
What do you care about my pain?
Upon the streets I wish to throw
My bleeding heart.