A storm was predicted, I was awake for the journey
Sat up high and wondered what to do
Seven in the morning, in no year
No day of the week, in no month
Grain rots on the fields as one reflects
Birds as dark shadows rise on autumn skies
And the corpse in the bed, still warm
But how many years, how many months
At night I hear the bells ring
In this empty house
I dream of a great healer
I wish you'd sleep
You tame four black birds in the bath
Ugly, helpless, devil's spawn
All this death precedes our deeds
Writes newer poetry, silently speaks our last words
Though it is spring, wind strips the trees
Its sound as lover's laughter among them
"You I only trusted so much to be disappointed"
Now I hold my tears until I shall choke
And the ground is light to tread, snow-white