In the winter
The coachman has sorrow in his bag under the seat
I'm a little late and hasty
In the winter
In the cabin
One can sit one cushions of stiff brokade(=thick fabric with inwoven metal threads)
Or roll together on the small floor
In the winter
Darkness falls upon windows and lips
The animals out there wheeze
I seek someone
In the winter
And maybe I have given up
Even before I left
But maybe I was like driven
From too many sleepless nights
From the crazy anxiety that never completety disappears
In the winter
All quiet
Trying to keep the night away
Even if it's too late
I would really like you to be proud of me
In the winter