“…I’d like, maybe, to live with you”

…I’d like, maybe, to live with you
In a small city,
Where the twilight is eternal
And bells let out eternal chimes.
And in a small, cosy lodge in the countryside —
Delicate ringing
Of ancient hours — like little droplets of time.
And sometimes, in the evening, out of an attic somewhere —
Flute sounds,
The flautist at the window.
And large tulips are on the windowsills.
And you, by any chance, might have even loved me…

In the middle of the room is a big ceramic stove,
On each tile is a miniature:
A rose — a heart — a boat. —
But outside the only window —
Snow, snow, snow.

You would have lain down — the way I like you: idle,
Nonchalant, carefree.
Now and then, a brisk snap:
A match.

The papirosa burns and goes dim,
And for a long long time it flickers on its tip
Along a short grey stub — ashes.
You’re just too lazy to give it a knock —
And the whole thing is wasted by fire.

10 December 1916

Original