When the rains begin here, and on Stefanplatz . . .

When the rains begin here, and on Stefanplatz
the owner of the comic marionette won’t be anymore,
and coachmen will ride with the top raised, and the work
of those who sweep the streets will become more complicated,
and the way of things will create fall, then I might be bold enough
to write you a letter because it\'s not right
to forget good friends. And I’ll say
I was in a house of butterflies,
and the colors on their wings
are the best proof that God exists.
And say that I walk the Street of the Favorites every morning,
And that I dream dreams in German, that I can’t
recreate the beauty and nobleness of the city in words.
I’ll speak about the ability of the city dwellers to smile to strangers,
about Andrew Lloyd Weber now amusing the public at the opera,
I’ll tell you and, of course, I won’t utter
a single word about how sad I am without you.

When the rains begin here, and on Stefanplatz . . .