| Each day he finds his way to the graveyard | |
| Without flowers, without prayers | |
| For hours he sits there on the floor | |
| By the people lying there | |
| He doesn't know any name | |
| Written in the cold stones | |
| He spells each of them tenderly | |
| Looks forward to be one of them | |
| He's a prisoner in his own world | |
| Doesn't take the challenge to break out | |
| Poor prisoner in your own world | |
| Is there nothing you can smile about? | |
| Poor prisoner in your own world | |
| Each day he leads his car to his office | |
| Without thinking, without dreaming | |
| He nods to everyone | |
| Without even looking at them | |
| He doesn't know any face | |
| Belonging to those name-plates | |
| Ignores each of them naturally | |
| Refusing to be one of them | |
| He's a prisoner in his own world | |
| Doesn't take the challenge to break out | |
| Poor prisoner in your own world | |
| Is there nothing you can smile about? | |
| Poor prisoner in your own world |
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