Hands, matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter.

You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms.

Now no one will listen to songs. The prophesied days have begun. Latest poem of mine, the world has lost its wonder, Don't break my heart, don't ring out.

It is unbearably painful for the soul to love silently.

Poems are my link with the times, with the new life of my people.

How the miracle of our meeting Shone there and sang, I didn't want to return From there to anywhere. Happiness instead of duty Was bitter delight to me. Not obliged to speak to anyone, I spoke for a long while. Let passions stifle lovers, Demanding answers, We, my dear, are only souls At the limits of the world.

Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue.