Passing the barren stumped trees of the squares
in the gray rain, the endless gray rain,
then in my room, drinking dark tea with lemon
to soothe my throat; in this manner
I have kept my silence against the winter.

With the sun returning to earth now,
one walks slowly through the street, so to observe
buds and sprouts struggling in the third month’s frost.
Still, in the morning’s light alone,
no warmth beside me in the bed,
I find this life, as always, insupportable:
as some too heavy emptiness that is my burden.
The songs come slowly broken.