One must confess one’s sins,
The reproaches of conscience
Must not be stifled.
While consciousness is still fresh
Throw out the trash,
Keep the treasures
And sort them again.

Make good the losses
And apologize.
…And yet one wants to ask again:
“And WHAT am I to confess?”

When paradise fills, not hell,
And gold and silver surround,
Confession is truly easy,
And often not even needed.