don’t say it is lovely, say something i can understand,
what you mean. in a moment, statutes will be moved
to museums and we will be subjects of the German Secret Police
paralysing sea of numbness in penitence for years of
excess passion, foolishness, unnecessary jealousy,
in that despicable loneliness of snow under a drowsy sun.

a calmness is enforced by this mute earth and
soft sun. what can i hear and where shall i go?
my life is a winter hot with needs, just now,
autumn so arrogantly unlike spring, burning out
to know (as much as i would care to) how to
bend to wishes and not to break. how?