Who am I? They often tell me 

I would step from my cell's confinement

calmly, cheerfully, firmly,

like a squirrel from his country-house.

Who am I? They often tell me 

I would talk to my warders

freely and friendly and clearly,

as though it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me 

I would bear the misfortune 

equably, smilingly, proudly,

like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really all that which other men tell of?

Or am I only what I know of myself, 

restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,

struggling for breath, as though hands

compressing my throat,

yearning for colors, for flowers,for the voices of birds,

thrusting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,

trembling with anger at despotisms and fresh humiliation,

tossing in expectation of great events,

powerlessingly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,

weary and empty at prying, at thinking, at making,

faint, ready to say farewell to it all?

Who am I? This or the other?

Am I one person today, and tomorrow another?

Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,

and before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?

Or is some thing within me still like a beaten army,

fleeing in disorder from the victory already achived?

Dietrich Bonhoeffer