And the houses will fall. Just before, on the balconies,
housewives will have taken down the washing,
outside, this time: sheets, blouses, pyjamas,
will not be brought back in; they will let them float, lightly,
flying over the street in a final farewell,
becoming a magic carpet, flecking the pavements.
Suddenly, the houses will fall. And whatever stands behind them.
And the entire theatre. The costumes will burn
and between the red of the flames a dirty, tearful sky
will lie down in the streets.
Friends will run away, the friends and the tears
and all those eyes who have for so many years kept me awake
when life was thrown away over cliffs of sleep.
I will stay here on my own,
my fingers burned by kisses and landscapes,
with nothing lost from the name, from the freedom to love you.