Grabs with its branches at a low Cloud, and collapses. And swim into the bottomless box. And the weathervane in the tower Tosses terrified and squeaks prayers To chase away the chloroform From the rose, the nightingale, the poplar, And, not remembering my name, It hysterically turns and whines And chokes. A wind blows from the pyramids, From kings and from castles, From churches slender as spears, From corpulent baroque flowers. Heads of paint die in frames.
Letters pray on stones.
The smell of withering roses trembles. The echo of war songs melts. A powerful man rules the country. Black slaves turn grindstones. Blood flows, poison and wine, A sword rings, and money.