September 2, 1911
A protracted ebbing.*
Everything revolves around the one: how can one live on their own grave?
You cannot break the chains of sin/the path back was buried by a wind--I sang to myself. That was two years ago, Passover. I wandered through the streets, declaiming. My heart wept for something then, now--it doesn’t. Is it good? And it is not good for me. What does that mean?
I am lazy. I can only do machine's work. Lies. A person can do all that they want! I want nothing. But I stand frightened before the fate of he who wants nothing.
By Moyshe Varshe
Translated by Corbin Allardice
*-The Yiddish here is highly daytshmerish (Germanized): "a doyrende ebbe." This suggests, first, an attempt at a more “poetic” language of a higher register, and/or, second, a reference or allusion to a German text.