Sitting on a beautiful hill,
I often see night dreams, and that is what seems to me:
It's not about money or the number of women,
Or about old folklore and the dry New Wave sea -
But we are walking blind in strange quiet place,
And all that we have got - it is dread and delight,
Dread that we are worse than we could be,
And deeply felt joy that everything is held tight;
And in my dreams
I just cannot refuse all these offers,
And I'm running somewhere, oh, but when I wake up,
I just hope that you will be with me...