Rising from the past, my shadow Is running in silence to meet me.

As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.

We are all carousers and loose women here; How unhappy we are together!

We thought: we're poor, we have nothing, but when we started losing one after the other so each day became remembrance day, we started composing poems about God's great generosity and our former riches.

That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.

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?

We learned not to meet anymore, We don't raise our eyes to one another, But we ourselves won't guarantee What could happen to us in an hour.