Today was melting, and today

Before the window I did stand.

A sober look, a freer chest,

I’m satisfied just once again.

I don’t know why. Perhaps the soul

Has simply grown tired of it all,

And somehow the rebellious pencil

I do not wish to touch at all.

Distant to good and evil both,

Inside the fog I stood, and thus,

Was lightly drumming with my finger

Upon the barely sounding glass.

It is indifferent to the soul

Than this one you first met—say I—

Than mother-of-the-pearl mud puddles

Where in full pleasure splashed the sky,

Than bird that overhead is flying

And dog that’s simply running by

And even the impoverished singer

Did not begin to make me cry.

The dear art of oblivion

The soul has mastered all the way.

Some overwhelmingly big feeling

Melted within my soul today.