His finger almost touches the bell,
the door, unbelievably slowly,
I look at myself:
I have no problem.
I look all right
and, to some girls,
With a gentle hand, the storm grasps
the handle of the door of the world;
like a hesitant stranger, it lets itself in,
There is a sweet music,
but its sweetness fails to console you.
This is what the days have taught you:
in every long war
A poet sits in a coffee shop, writing.
The old lady
thinks he is writing a letter to his mother,
All of them arrive:
river and train
sound and ship
light and letters
My grandfather, still harbouring the illusion
that all is well with the world,
fills his countryside pipe
It's also fine to die in our beds
on a clean pillow
and among our friends.