It seems to me we are not to go far-it looks as if we're locked.
Each of us has got a home and town of his own, and we are caught in that net.
And where I sang, you are no more than a guest, though I sang not for them.
But we shall become what they see us like, you'll go back home, me home, too,
And everybody with his.
And indeed, what for do we need us? The day is not enough for us
To do around all the hands that want both you and me.
And only when I will be singing where strangers' looks and smoke are,
I know who will stand up before me, and make me,
And order me to stay alive one more time.
