Det finnes stunder da alle ord er små, da lykka er et vårsyn, ei solgnist i en dråpe dogg som siger langs et strå.

I'd give anything if only my 
    life were an oxcart's squeaking
    down the road,
Early one morning and later resuming
    to where it started,
Toward nightfall,
    down the same road.

I'd have no need of hopes---
I'd need only wheels...
As I grew old
    I'd have no wrinkles or white hair...
When I'd be of no further use,
    they'd pull off my wheels and I'd lie
    there overturned and broken,
    at the bottom of a pit...