Winter
They will not answer your greeting
Heads are buried in collars
No one will lift their head to reply, or to meet their friends
Eyes can see nothing but the ground before their feet
For the road is dark and slippery
And if you stretch out a hand of kindness toward anyone,
Reluctantly they draw their hand out from beneath the coat
For the cold is fiercely burning
The breath that rises from the warm hearth of the chest turns into a dark cloud
Standing like a wall before your eyes
If this is what breath becomes, what hope can you still hold
In the eyes of friends, far or near?
O my noble Messiah, O old man in the filthy shirt
The air is so ignobly cold… oh…
Bless your hands, and may your head be glad
Answer my greeting, open the door
It is I, your guest of every night, a sorrowful wandering gypsy
It is I, the battered, ailing stone kicked aside
It is I, the vile curse of creation, the discordant tune
I am neither of Rome nor of Zanj, I am simply colorless, colorless
Come, open the door, open it to the heartsick one
O friend! O host! The guest of your years and months trembles like a wave at your door
It is not hail, it is not death
If you heard a sound, it is only the talk of cold and chattering teeth
Tonight I have come to leave a debt behind
To set your bill beside the cup
Why do you say it is late, that it is dawn, that morning has come?
It deceives you, this redness in the sky is not the glow of daybreak
O friend! This is the work of the cold that bit the ear, a keepsake of winter’s icy slap
And the lantern of the narrow-fielded firmament, dead or alive,
Is hidden in the thick coffin of the nine-fold, death-plastered darkness
O friend! Go, light the lamp of wine, night and day are the same
They will not answer your greeting
The air is gloomy, doors shut, heads in collars, hands hidden
Breaths are clouds, hearts weary and sorrowful,
Trees are skeletons adorned with crystal,
The earth heartbroken, the sky’s ceiling low,
Sun and moon smeared with dusty haze,
It is winter