O my sad moon:
The sea is dead and its black waves have devoured Sinbad's sail
His sons no more exchange cries with the gulls and the hoarse echo
Rebounds
The horizon are shrouded in ashes
For whom then do the enchantresses sing?
when the sea is dead
And the verdure floats on its brow
Whole worlds floating
Filled with our memories, when the minstrel sang
Now our island is flooded and song has turned to
weeping
The larks
Have flown, O my sad moon
The treasure in the streambed is buried
At the end of the garden, beneath the little lemon tree
There sinbad hid it
But it is empty, and ashes
And snow and darkness and leaves entomb it
And the world is entombed in mist
Are we thus to die in this wasteland?
Is thus the noonday sun to be snuffed out
And the hearth of the poor left mute?
Dawnless towns asleep:
In their streets I called your name, and darkness was the answer
I asked the wind after you, as it moaned in the heart of the silence
I saw your face in mirrors and days
In the windowpanes of distant dawn
In postcards
Dawnless town shrouded in ice:
The sparrows of spring have left their churches
To whom should they sing? when the cafes have closed their doors
To whom should they pray? O shattered heart
when the night is dead
And the coaches return frost-coasted
NO horse between the shafts
Driven by the dead
Do thus the years pass?
And torture rip the heart?
And we, from exile to exile and door to door
wither like the lily in the dust
Beggars we, O moon, we die
Our train missed for all eternity.