He looked up into the grey sky
and decided: it's not time yet, I got time
and, shakig off the cold, massaging his hands,
he said: it should rhyme.
And thus he began:
To fabricate the best amongst all the poems -
that is what I will do, and forget about the rest
and the empty phrases
that fill no cup and no page.
To make you wonder, and frown
and think: who is this?
This master of words, of letters,
What kind of bliss
is he blessed with?
Then also: to make you remember
my name and my word,
and the fame that so uplifted
my thoughts.
And: to remind you
of my soul and bones
when I shall be gone, and not long after that,
you will build a statue
of stone.
But before all that I will-
I must-
I should-
But where shall I begin?
Where shall I
begin?
And you will put down your paper, your pen,
you will sigh, and know: all this was only a revery.
Then you will stand up, undress, stand naked in front of the mirror-
and dance.