When the sun goes down, they told me,
I have to slash my veins;
it’s only noon,
I’ve a few hours left to live.
Shall I write to Lucullus?
I don’t feel like it now.
Go to the circus?
I don’t need games any more, nor bread.
Shall I tell
philosophy’s fortune?
Another hour has gone by.
I’ve a full four hours left.
My bath water’s heating up.
I yawn and lean out of the window,
follow the course of the sun that will not go down again,
and feel inexpressibly bored.
Leave a Reply