POET
To Malarme

He, with a burnt liver
But a mind clear!?, tongue cuts
Icy sweat, the load squashes
The pocket is empty just a few pennies
Searching for shelter.

She is everything
A lady selling spring
Paper pigeons, dreams
Starched lace, embroidered sheets
The bed creaks, what is to be done, what is to be done!

Nature hides skillful hands
She just framed the tapestry,
The secret of the sacred sin.
Don’t let him be a poet
But he will be, and great he will be!