Between my sleeping and dreaming, between me and the one in me who I suppose I am, a river flows without end.

In its meandering journeys,
Such as all rivers make,
It passed by other, different
Shores in far-off places.

It arrived at where I now live,
At the house that I'm today.
If I dwell on myself, it passes;
If I wake up, it already went by.

And the one I feel I am, who dies
In what links me to myself,
Sleeps where the river flows...
That river without end.