REMORSE IN EVENING WEAR

A man in grey walks the gloomy street.
Nobody suspects him. He’s a vacant body;
Vacant like the plain, the sea, the wind,
Such bitter deserts under an implacable sky.

He’s time past, and his wings
find a pallid force in darkness;
He’s remorse, who by night, secretly,
hestitantly, gathers in his neglected shadow.

Don’t take that hand! Ivy creeps,
covering the winter branches.
Invisible, the grey man walks through the calm.
Don’t you hear the dead? But the earth is deaf.