You know yourself that I’m not going to celebrate
The most bitter day of our meeting.
What to leave you in remembrance?
My shade? What good is a ghost to you?
The dedication to a burnt drama
Of which not an ash remains,
Or the terrible New Year’s portrait
Suddenly hurled from its frame.
Or the barely audible
Sound of birch embers.
Or that they didn’t have time to tell me of
Another’s love.