Behind yellow windows shadows drink hot tea. Yearning people sway on a hardened pond Workers find a soft woman's corpse. Glowing blue snows cast a howling darkness. On high poles a scarecrow, implored, hangs. Stores flicker dimly through frosted windows, In front of which human bodies move like ghosts. Students carve a frozen girl. How lovely, the crystalline winter evening burning! A platinum moon now streams through a gap in the houses. Next to green lanterns under a bridge Lies a gypsy woman. And plays an instrument. Girls They cannot stand their rooms in the evening. They creep out into deep starry streets. How gentle is the world in the streetlights' wind! How strangely buzzing life melts away... They go by gardens and houses, As though very far off there might be a light, And they look upon every horny man As a sweet gentleman savior After the Ball Night creeps into the cellars, musty and dull. Tuxedos totter through the rubble of the street. Faces are moldy and worn out. The blue morning burns coolly in the city. How quickly music and dance and greed melted... It smells of the sun. And day begins With trolleys, horses, shouts and wind. Dull daily labor cloaks the people in dust. Families silently wolf down lunch. At times a hall still vibrates through a skull, Much dull desire and a silken leg. Landscape Like old bones in the pot Of noon the damned streets lie there. It's a long time since I saw you here. A young man pulls at a girl's pigtail. And a couple of dogs wallow in filth. I would like to go arm and arm with you. The sky is gray wrapping paper On which the sun sticks--a spot of butter. Moonscape The yellow mother's eye burns up there. Everywhere night lies like a blue cloth. There is no question that I am sucking air. I am only a little picture book. Houses capture dreams of motley sleepers As though in nets in the windows. Autos creep like ladybugs Up luminous streets. Landscape in the Early Morning The air is gray. Who knows something good for soot? Next to an ox grazing on the ground Stands an astonished deeply serious mountaineer. Soon there is a powerful downpour of rain. A young boy who is pissing on a meadow Will be the source of a small river. What should one do when nature calls! Be natural. Be yourself. A poet roams around in the world, Observes for himself the orderly flow of traffic And rejoices about sky, field, and dung. Ah, and he takes careful notice of everything. Then he climbs a high mountain Which happens to be close by. Return of the Village Boy