In the winternThe coachman has sorrow in his bag under the seatnI'm a little late and hastynIn the winternnIn the cabinnOne can sit one cushions of stiff brokade(=thick fabric with inwoven metal threads)nOr roll together on the small floornIn the winternnDarkness falls upon windows and lipsnThe animals out there wheezenI seek someonenIn the winternnAnd maybe I have given upnEven before I leftnBut maybe I was like drivennFrom too many sleepless nightsnFrom the crazy anxiety that never completety disappearsnIn the winternnAll quietnTrying to keep the night awaynEven if it's too latenI would really like you to be proud of menIn the winter