A bee circles a clover,
A Fisherman mends his glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rain spout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it always should be.
On the day the world ends
Women walk through fields under their umbrellas
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of the lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes near the island,
The voice of the a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.
And those who expected lightning and thunder,
And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.
Only a white-haired old man,
who would be a prophet,
Yet is not a prophet,
for he’s much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes;
There will be no other end of the world,
There will be no other end of the world.