And now, outside, the walls
of black flint, eyeless.
How pale in sleep you lie.
Love: my love is just a breath
blown on the pane and dissolved.
Everything, even you,
cries silently for help, the web
of the spider is ripped with rain,
the geese fly on into the black cloud.
What can I do for you?
what can I do for you?
Can the touch of a finger mend
what a finger's touch has broken?
Blue-eyed now, yellow-haired,
I stand in my old nightmare
beside the track, while you
and over and over and always you
plod into the deathcars.
Sometimes you smile at me
and I-I smile back at you.
How sweet the odor of the station-master's roses!
How pure, how poster-like the colors of this dream.