Now, no doubt, the hour must be late . . .
Despair has settled for the night in my heart,
Tortured once more by bitter regret—
What time is it? What time is it?
Beyond the window where I stand, implacable night.
Only autumn has dawned for me.
Maybe it’s three o’clock, could it really be three?
What time is it? What time is it?
Maybe somehow one-third of this . . .
But a glance outside shows black.
From the station the bell screams thirteen–
What time is it? What time is it?
This dark corridor shrouded in thought
Cannot resist the night coachman . . .
The telephone rings, rings again, nervously—
What time is it? What time is it?
God, this sudden early-morning rain
Attacks like an endless torrent of pitch.
Does this hateful night know any bounds?!
What time is it? What time is it?
But listen to Charles Baudelaire: “Bitter and precious hour,
Time for ecstasy, it’s wine o’clock!”
That’s how he’d answer the question—
What time is it?

1914