I’d like to live with You
In a small town,
Where there are eternal twilights
And eternal bells.
And in a small village inn—
The faint chime
Of ancient clocks—like droplets of time.
And sometimes, in the evenings, from some garret—
And the flautist himself in the window.
And big tulips in the window-sills.
And maybe, You would not even love me…
In the middle of the room—a huge tiled oven,
On each tile—a small picture:
A rose—a heart—a ship.—
And in the one window—
Snow, snow, snow.
You would lie—thus I love You: idle,
Now and then the sharp strike
Of a match.
The cigarette glows and burns down,
And trembles for a long, long time on its edge
In a gray brief pillar—of ash.
You’re too lazy even to flick it—
And the whole cigarette flies into the fire.