PARTII
Duet(I sing with myself)Out of my sorrowI’ll build a stair,And every to-morrowWill climb to me there—With ashes of yesterdayIn its hair.My fortune is madeOf a stab in the side,My debts are paidIn pennies of pride—Little red coinsIn a heart I hide.The stones that I eatAre ripe for my needs,My cup is completeWith the dregs of deeds—Clear are the notesOf my broken reeds.I carry my packOf aches and stings,Light with the lackOf all good things—But not on my back,Because of my wings!
Duet
(I sing with myself)
Out of my sorrowI’ll build a stair,And every to-morrowWill climb to me there—With ashes of yesterdayIn its hair.My fortune is madeOf a stab in the side,My debts are paidIn pennies of pride—Little red coinsIn a heart I hide.The stones that I eatAre ripe for my needs,My cup is completeWith the dregs of deeds—Clear are the notesOf my broken reeds.I carry my packOf aches and stings,Light with the lackOf all good things—But not on my back,Because of my wings!
Out of my sorrowI’ll build a stair,And every to-morrowWill climb to me there—With ashes of yesterdayIn its hair.My fortune is madeOf a stab in the side,My debts are paidIn pennies of pride—Little red coinsIn a heart I hide.The stones that I eatAre ripe for my needs,My cup is completeWith the dregs of deeds—Clear are the notesOf my broken reeds.I carry my packOf aches and stings,Light with the lackOf all good things—But not on my back,Because of my wings!
Out of my sorrowI’ll build a stair,And every to-morrowWill climb to me there—
Out of my sorrow
I’ll build a stair,
And every to-morrow
Will climb to me there—
With ashes of yesterdayIn its hair.
With ashes of yesterday
In its hair.
My fortune is madeOf a stab in the side,My debts are paidIn pennies of pride—
My fortune is made
Of a stab in the side,
My debts are paid
In pennies of pride—
Little red coinsIn a heart I hide.
Little red coins
In a heart I hide.
The stones that I eatAre ripe for my needs,My cup is completeWith the dregs of deeds—
The stones that I eat
Are ripe for my needs,
My cup is complete
With the dregs of deeds—
Clear are the notesOf my broken reeds.
Clear are the notes
Of my broken reeds.
I carry my packOf aches and stings,Light with the lackOf all good things—
I carry my pack
Of aches and stings,
Light with the lack
Of all good things—
But not on my back,Because of my wings!
But not on my back,
Because of my wings!