"in the midst of the dishonored winter,
I climb ladders of moisture and blood
groping along the walls,
and in the anguish of the coming time
I kneel upon a stone and weep.
And toward acrid tunnels I make my way
dressed in transitory metals,
toward solitary wine vaults, toward dreams,
toward green palpitating shoe polish,
toward disinterested tools,
toward tastes of mud and throat,
toward imperishable butterflies."
