In the winter   The coachman has sorrow in his bag under the seat   I'm a little late and hasty   In the winter      In the cabin   One can sit one cushions of stiff brokade(=thick fabric with inwoven metal threads)   Or roll together on the small floor   In the winter      Darkness falls upon windows and lips   The animals out there wheeze   I seek someone   In the winter      And maybe I have given up   Even before I left   But maybe I was like driven   From too many sleepless nights   From the crazy anxiety that never completety disappears   In the winter      All quiet   Trying to keep the night away   Even if it's too late   I would really like you to be proud of me   In the winter