There is a grace of life which is still yours, my dear Europe.

The heroes of the present will retreat to the imitation they are anyhow.

Whatever you have to say, leave The roots on, let them Dangle And the dirt Just to make clear Where they come from.

There is a grace of life which is still yours, my dear Europe.

This morning of the small snow I count the blessings, the leak in the faucet which makes of the sink time, the drop of the water on water.

I'm sorry, but I was born with a towel on my head.

I'm trying to climb up both walls at once.