You, measuring me by the days—
With me, the hot and homeless one,
Did you walk on the flaming squares
Under the giant, burning moon?
And in the tavern filled with plague,
When solemn waltz a screech did make,
Did you not in a drunken fist
My long and piercing fingers break?
With which voice in my sleep do I
Whisper—you heard?—O smoke and ash!—
What can you know of me, since you
With me did not sleep or get trashed?