I’d like to live with You

In a small town,

Where there are eternal twilights

And eternal bells.

And in a small village inn—

The faint chime

Of ancient clocks—like droplets of time.

And sometimes, in the evenings, from some garret—

A flute,

And the flautist himself in the window.

And big tulips in the window-sills.

And maybe, You would not even love me…

In the middle of the room—a huge tiled oven,

On each tile—a small picture:

A rose—a heart—a ship.—

And in the one window—

Snow, snow, snow.

You would lie—thus I love You: idle,

Indifferent, carefree.

Now and then the sharp strike

Of a match.

The cigarette glows and burns down,

And trembles for a long, long time on its edge

In a gray brief pillar—of ash.

You’re too lazy even to flick it—

And the whole cigarette flies into the fire.