Indifferent to all this
which is happening inside me: the treason
by my own blood, the death that is approaching more or less slowly,
the going away of all that which once seemed permanent,
the rain is stubbornly falling
upon the dark green fields full of boredom.
In a season that can´t be defined clearly, a snowless winter,
an excessively cold, dark spring,
the world is full of faces without expression,
save for weariness, save for the grimace of hate-
Without vigour, I hang any old coat on my shoulders
and go out to the street, as if to do something new.
That is a lie. The day will conclude
with nothing having changed at all. The world
is no longer capable of imagining.