Our predecessors, rattling 
in their cages, often said:
"Truly, brothers, our children 
will be freer when we're dead."

And their children grew, and lived 
in cages still more terrible.
And they whispered: "To our children, 
sunlight will be visible."

Now for our children there's one 
consolation that must do: 
They will surely get to Mecca, 
though we shall not get there too. 

Length of days now seems predestined:  
Two hundred, five hundred years, 
Who will bellow like a fool, 
and who will melt away in tears. 

Everything will soon be combed 
and cleaned.  The time is not too far. 
Maybe just two hundred years?  
Like hell!  Am I Methuselah?

Like an owl, I stand among 
the idols broken long ago. 
In descendants not yet born 
I have no brother, friend or foe. 

I would like a little light 
just for myself, while I'm still here. 
From the tailor to the poet – 
let them hear me, loud and clear. 

Ah, descendants!  Let them come 
and meet the fate that comes to all. 
Let them learn to curse the dark, 
and beat their heads against a wall!