My father was a suitable man
He always had things in his pockets
Chocolate for the satyrs
fat polished coins for the ferryman

You certainly couldn't impress him
with a poem
with a glum face
with nice dry socks and the promise
that all would remain as it was

He knew: nothing would remain as it was
everyone would leave him
shutting him up in loneliness
lulling him into somnolent
slumber, slumber

Even the album makes a noise: it explodes
Even the grave is a room
And even his suit, or so he imagined—
one day the worms would read it
with their tongues
Translation: Susan Bernofsky