And I enter the dishevelled hair of the gardens, the night, with those lamps
illuminating the willows and the sluggish air leaning against the rockery,
since everything sleeps, children, their books of birds whose songs are
vaster than in any story. And I muse on love to keep the summer between
my legs, I say "utopia" while thinking "liberty," working a long patience
with these words that take melancholy's hand and lead it away, words without
hope, in which I will want to believe, however, even in my eternal ash.

translated by by Tim Lilburn