It is a question how to fill the hours
Left vacant by a blanked activity;
When time, which always was so easily
Sweetened by what is gone, now sours,
And that great threat of constant boredom lowers,
What can be done? It's difficult to see,
For in that path lies an eternity
Of restlessness, from which the soul now cowers.
It is no answer to look evermore
Forward to a future once again
Bright with the former rhythm: even then
There is the question of the time before.
Rather I seek a secondary task
Which may serve in that absence as a mask.
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