(after Friedrich Hölderlin)
In the lake the land hangs
thick with yellow pears
and wild roses.
Blessed swans,
you are drunk with kisses;
clear your heads
in the temperate, purging water.
When grief of winter comes,
where should I take
the flowers, the sunshine
and shadows of the earth?
The walls still stand
and banners flutter their
cold and speechless comment in the wind.