The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones; unspoken phrases, silent words.
Poems are my link with the times, with the new life of my people.
I seem to myself, as in a dream, Am accidental guest in this dreadful body.
Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue.
And it seemed to me that there were fires Flying till dawn without number And I never found out things-those Strange eyes of his-what colour? Everything trembling and singing and Were you my enemy or my friend, Winter was it or summer?
It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.