Meditation

Calm down, my Sorrow, we must move with care
You called for evening; it descends, it's here
The town is coffined in its atmosphere
Bringing relief to some, to others care

Now while the common multitude strips bare
Feels pleasure's cat o' nine tails on its back
And fights off anguish at the great bazaar
Give me your hand, my Sorrow. Let's stand back;

Back from these people! Look, the dead years dressed
In old clothes crowd the balconies of the sky
Regret emerges smiling from the sea

The sick sun slumbers underneath an arch
And like a shroud strung out from east to west
Listen, my Dearest, hear the sweet night march!