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Now I am satisfied.
By writing this poem, the blood has left my head
(Too much thought!)
And returned to my arms,
Where comfortable in my extremities,
I can sleep.
Thanks to this ideal device
My veins are filled with fire
but my eyelids are ice.
I spent like a king. I have no money, again.
I feel like a man.
The iron fact of death makes everything ideal.
Love, for pleasure, aims to make us different.
And never can.
I was skinny, but you, too, were a skeleton.
Reality is whatever the mind can steal.
Because of death, our hoard is no big deal,
Gleaming, my little god, in the Kastle High Ideal,
shadowy from all the hoarding,
pieces of poetry which never get written,
because, meine dichter, never NOW,
but THEN, you were smitten.
When I found myself loving you,
I said to myself, "Everything is warm. This will do!"
But iron death makes everything ideal.
They once studied the Romantics!
Silly communist. You aren't real.
