Underway

At evening they bore the stranger into the death parlor;

a scent of tar; the faint rustling of red sycamores;

the dark flight of jackdaws; guard was set up on the square.

The sun has sunk into black linen; again and again this past

                   evening returns.

In the next room the sister is playing a sonata by Schubert.

Very softly her smile sinks into the crumbling fountain, which murmurs bluish in the twilight. Oh, how ancient is our                                       

                   flesh.

Someone is whispering below in the garden; someone has

                   forsaken this black sky.

Apples smell fragrant on the dresser. Grandmother lights

                   golden candles.

Oh, how mild is this autumn. Beneath high trees our footsteps

                   ring faintly

in the old park. Oh, how solemn is the hyacinthine countenance

                   of twilight.

The blue spring at your feet, mysterious the red stillness of your

                   mouth,

obscured by the slumber of the foliage, by the dark gold of

                   withered sunflowers.

Your lids are heavy with the poppy and dream softly on my brow.

Faint bells shiver through my breast. A blue cloud

is your countenance upon me, sunken in the twilight.