O childish eyes of cornflowers,
ripeness of nasturtiums.
Today is like a ship sailing for India,
sailing for Turkey.
In shade from broad baobabs of lindens, the avenues
With a Bach fugue, the next-door balcony
leads the landscape to the church
and the wheels of sky can be heard—the planets’ creaking.
What then is left?
This: the grave is the earthen layer of recollection,
a lifeless flower with cheeks like a child,
my last poem which I burned to ashes,
from which a small black rose remained.