| Your tune trickles on as it has always done, | ||
| and along the July cart-tracks, thought the chapped grass | ||
| your unnamed path cuts across the yellow stubble-fields | ||
| (and who knows where it leads). | ||
| Seeds and clods trip you, but absorbed in yourself, | ||
| you play for summer's banquet. And each evening my sated soul | ||
| is lifted on high by your fixed song, before falling sound asleep. | ||
| But in your orphans's dress, sewn from dusk and dew, | ||
| why do you live always in the dark, hidden from all people's eyes? | ||
| in your unpitying, helpless voice. | ||
| - I can't stand words. As soon as you're asleep in your bed, | ||
| I exit the night... I listen to its moments ring. | ||
| And everything I see through the slits of the stars, | ||
| day slashes with a golden scythe. |