Life in the circus barracks—

where the rhythm has lost its meaning

and the caged bear consumes

the young, dazzling dancers—

where I rest my life high above

on a tight rope.

I perch with tense limbs

and swing dangerously

now and then!

I am a boiling kettle

balancing on a string.

Far below the iron bear maw

thirsts for me.

Brilliant lights, sharp lights—

they only make the darkness brighter,

but my! the glare ceases!

Blindness follows, and blindly I fall

down to the soiled, gritty sand.

Wings could not help me

in this red tent.

The crowd cheers at the show.