It is the first of May, the time of love,
and you are wiping the stairs again,
you listen only to the rag's voice,
you have no time for love at all.

The quiet moss whispers of love,
I would lie down next to you, my love, right away,
if you were lying on your back,
it takes my breath away,
and there you stand on the stairs.

I am in great enchantment,
when I meet you with a bucket,
when I see you in the hallways,
wiping dust from the windowsills,
I would reach out for you, my love, right away,
but I am afraid of that wet rag.
When I would want to touch your breasts,
the wet rag would strike me.
(Broken arm, hospital, plaster cast...)