Writing a song is like mending a rare found and long broken vase First you must find every chipping, then put it in its proper place. And each time I though I had gathered them all there’s always some five of them left, And from somewhere beyond I hear your voice call: „Not yet, not yet.„ A silly old river mistaking itself for the image of trees That bent o’er her rippling surface reflect both their passin and leaves. And often that happens I’ve felt that before when I thought I paid trees my debt From somewhere beyond I hear your voice soar: „Not yet, not yet.„ Sun setting silver upon vinyards, rain washing dustfrom the grapes, Taking it down to the river, oh, for the August-harvest night debates! And each time I thought I’d taste the young wine and sit by my love at sunset, The cold eastern wind has brought me your sign: „Not yet, not yet.„ I use to drink wine from an old vase and think whether planting an oak Near where river did run after rain came was what caused that the rare found vase broke. And each time my wine turns sour on my tongue and I would break the vase without regret, From somewhere beyond you enter the song: „Not yet.„ Not yet.