In my unending city, there is night.

In my unending city, there is night.
Away from sleeping buildings, I take flight.
The passersby all ponder: daughter, wife,-
But I remembered one thing only: night.

The mild, July wind shows me where to go.
In someone’s house, music’s playing - low.
Until the sunrise, surely, winds will blow
And pass between my ribs and into - slow.

There’s a lit up window and a poplar tree,
A flower in my hand, a church-bell’s plea,
This path I take in no one’s footsteps - free,
And this lone shadow, - there is no me.
 
Outside, the lamps, like golden beads, blaze,
And in my mouth, - this bitter leaf’s taste.
My friends, release me from the day’s maze.
You’re merely dreaming all of this, dazed.

July 17, 1916