The house is no house
Meals are no meals
Your love is no wine
If you have no cognition of death.
Time? The shirt in which it was sleeping,
With the peace of the field, is now torn
At the sleeves.
The lilac is laughing, you do not know
Why. A strange shriek urges the growth
Of the grapes.
The truth? The house is not ours.
In summer when it is ours
It is not quite a house.