To die. And be born as an inspector of playgrounds for tiny tots.
At night to write, as you hit the high spots.
Cradle songs for a play featuring a sleeping baby.
Or, more likely, being born as a timorous mushroom maybe.
Lonely tree stumps welcome the one-legged visitor.
Transformation into a tree or a mushroom is rare,
Mushroom and tree hang out together. At this sign kids
With baskets get ready to descend on the woods,
Where amid dark trunks a cobweb shimmers … Their eyes can’t take it in—
Pity, the basket is small. This pity’s the only kind known.
As for you, slender-legged mushroom, mercy is on the skids,
And no one will be born as an inspector of playgrounds for kids
Translated by Daniel Weissbort