World misfortune wanders ghostly through the afternoon.

Shanties flee through small gardens brown and deserted.

Sparks totter around burnt muck.

Two sleepers stagger homeward gray and vague.

On the withered meadow a child runs

And plays with his eyes black and smooth.

The gold drips from the bushes turbid and weary.

An old man turns sadly in the wind.

In the evening over my head

Saturn again mutely guides a wretched fate.

A tree, a dog scratches behind itself

And God’s sky staggers black and defoliated.

A small fish glides fast down the brook;

And quietly the dead friend’s hand stirs

And lovingly smoothes forehead and robe.

A light rouses shadows in the rooms.