I had a neighbor. In a deaf attic,
Among red sunweb and dreamy doves,
All his life he gathered bread, and bedecked
With bread his attic — gripped by a passion.

No one felt the taste of his stinginess,
Perhaps just the doves, the winged madonnas.
No one felt, no one older or younger,
And protected by bread, he died of hunger.

Tonight, the miser stammered in my dream
And stirred my thoughts: all my life, like him,
I gathered words and bedecked with them
The empty walls of my hut — gripped by a passion.

No one felt with a poet a recluse,
Not even dove madonnas told their gentle secrets.
No one felt, neither older nor younger,
And protected by my words — I am dying of hunger.

1949