Song falls silent, music is dumb, But the air burns with their fragrance, And white winter, on its knees, Observes everything with reverent attention.
Poems are my link with the times, with the new life of my people.
As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.
I seem to myself, as in a dream, Am accidental guest in this dreadful body.
That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.
Hands, matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter.