A pot from the attic that sooted the sun in my childhood
Came back to me in the wire tangles of a dream.
Rusty voice of cracked cast iron,
He hurled spears:

— You see? No more attic, the cherry tree is gone.
No more dovecote, no ladder.
Just a pot from the attic — His Excellency Satan
Chained to you a concentrate of fear.

A fire spars with itself and is spent.
Art bursts like a light Parisian fashion.
But eternal is the fear — life's last element,
Except for fear, the rest is legend.

1961