They say it was harsh, and so it remained, so lonely
that night in the room where, wholly forgotten,
a bunch of tulips were the sole revellers left -
unravelling themselves, ravelling on their stalks
as if seeking a handhold, so close to falling blossom
by blossom, yet still opening up, so wholly contrary to
the low ebb we had reached, such that we sensed
how casually and pointlessly entrusted to us had been
that old fable of wealth and humility we were to read
in the falling of petals, or how through its incomparable
gift we give ourselves up to the ecstasy: the plenitude of nothing.

Translated by Don Paterson