through virgin snow I roam

Through virgin snow I roam,
Fresh lilies fill my heart.
The dusk, to guide me home,
Has lit a candle-star.

Light? Dark? I cannot say.
Was that the breeze? A cock?
Has winter come? Or maybe
Swans in the meadows flock?

How smooth the snow, how white!
Frost tingling warmth imparts.
I’d love to clasp the bright
Bare birch-breasts to my heart!

Dark thickets! But all round
Clear snow fields cheer the eyes.
I’d love to fold arms round
The willow’s timber thighs.

Esenin

the death of guillaume apollinaire

we know nothing
we knew nothing of grief

the bitter season of cold

digs long furrows in our muscles

he would have preferred the joy of victory

wise under calm sorrows    caged
unable to do anything at all

if snow fell upward

if the sun rose to meet us during the night

to warm us

and trees hung with their crown upside down

—unique teardrop—

if birds were here with us to contemplate themselves

in the tranquil lake above our heads

WE COULD UNDERSTAND

death would be a beautiful long voyage

and an unlimited vacation from the flesh of structures and of bones.

Tristan Tzara