In the cone of light
A poet was musing the dark.
I knew it too. I told my friends,
And implied the words were not mine.
But they only laughed
And pushed my head into the penumbra of light.
"Look, look, they eagerly cried;
His face is like thunder, like frost, like a lamb
Which knows it has to perish at Easter."
But hope was without affection for him.
He alone could feel
That a little darkness remains in the morning.
How high up in the sky?
No, I did not answer this question
Put by my friends. Autumn had died. The lime
Spread on the walls during spring
Had come and gone. Coolness had vanished
In the eyes of the deer. I told you: we are sad now
But all is well. No-one is in need of me; no-one
Needs my life.
When will we plough again, when close up
The furrow? The wish to return to one's home.
Yet is it the same house? Allow me to remain;
To wash the walls,
And choose never to remember this.
I swear we can.