Every woman is the gift of a world to me. - Heinrich Heine

Still is the night, it quiets the streets down,
In that window my love would appear;
She's long since gone away from this town,
But this house where she lived still remains here.

A man stands here too, staring up into space,
And wrings his hands with the strength of his pain:
It chills me, when I behold his pale face
For the moon shows me my own features again!

You spirit double, you specter with my face
Why do you mock my love-pain so
That tortured me here, here in this place
So many nights, so long ago?

So we keep asking, over and over
Until a handful of earth
Stops our mouths-
But is that an answer?

Wherever people burn books, there, finally, they will also burn people.