Those former pleasures
Would only torture me now.
They seem too holy, those former pleasures,
Delicate, beautiful, but not beautiful enough, somehow.
The numerous smooth instruments were played well.
Pleasure the aim—in those times the populace lived too close to hell.
The horrifying pain of the unfortunate were drowned out
By the ecstasies of Mozart and Poe, the historians have no doubt.
But today the warmth of Mozart seems cold.
In my loneliness I think of sex in terms which are far more cunning and bold.
Cold is the source of all pain. And cold—cold is death.
So why can’t the creatures of pleasure understand this, with their warm breath?
Why can’t the creatures of pleasure, ice melting on their faces,
Leave their intricate habits for the warmer places?
Cold, cold is God, Allah, who commands
We cover the chest and ears as the end of pleasure demands.
Who are these, my neighbors, listening to Mozart in the snow?
Solemn concerts at church, where they warn against fires that grow?
Denying the heat in their hearts as they wave cheerfully to me?
You will torture me to death! You kiss me on the foot and knee.
Your whole life is a funeral. An obsolete march in the snow.
Why do you read, by the weak lamp, the ice cube poetry of Poe?
Why don’t the creatures with warm breath, who hate death,
And who desire warmth, know?