Sometimes I wonder,
Whether it was a dream,
Or whether it was a truth,
Something that had happened,
On a cold winter night.
Oh, how well I remember,
Even in my slumber,
Of that pitch black night,
And of that chilling sight.
A moonless night so doomed,
White flowers had bloomed,
Which had the scent of death,
And the loveliness of birth.
I was hurrying back my home,
After another day so long,
Conscious of the lateness,
Conscious of the darkness.
As the silence of the night,
Began to eat my might,
I stumbled upon something,
Something not breathing.
I bent over that thing,
My heart madly pounding,
I found two eyes staring,
And felt their coldness nearing.
I knew it was a body,
A human body dead.
I saw puddles of blood
Like a great red flood.
I screamed with all my might,
A scream that pierced the night,
The stillness was broken,
And people began to flock in.
Now here I am in this room,
Chained up like a dog
'Why? ' I ask myself,
As they would not say it themselves.
They say that they had seen me
Screaming to the darkness
With a dagger in my hand,
In my blood soaked hand.
They say I am insane
And out of my mind
'Murderer' they call me,
But I would never believe them.
Now, here I am in this room,
With dreams and truths as comrades,
And haunted by the memories
Of that cold winter night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem