Growling, I loped along at a hound’s pace,
Hackles up, taciturn and angry,
Until I came outside the house, barked with despair,
And was answered by my dogs. (…)
We aren't howling from cold or from hunger,
But rather because the moon has fallen upon us like a dead cloth
And from despair over the silvery depths of the garden,
Over the incomprehensible silence, over this world.
Oh, for whom in all this longing, for whom
Have we, frightened, raised up our heads?
Mangy dogs cannot respond
Nor can I, my fellow dogs!
And so let us sleep, worn out by weeping.
Maybe we'll find relief in sleep,
Seeing poor mongrel dreams,
The grey phantom of our canine death,
There a flat, low heaven will appear,
We shall sniff at the doorstep of God
And, as He once came to the aid of the poor and anxious,
So to the dogs will come their Saviour, God.