A white bird is the great sky.
Crouching straight under him, there stares a city.
The houses are half-dead old people.

Morosely a thin carriage horse gapes,
And winds, meagre dogs, run a dreary race.
Their skins squeak at the sharp corners.

In a street groans a madman: You, oh, you –
When I finally, my beloved, find thee . . .
A crowd around him marvel and grin full of mockery.

Three little people playing blind man's buff –
Everwhere gray powder lays its hands.
The afternoon, a gentle tearstained God.