Classic Poem

One can't say it is impossible. At some end of the earth, unknown to me, surely in a basement in a foggy city, a thin twenty-five-year-old just like me, his hair blond, eyes gray, talks in a Scandinavian language about the principle of revolutionary action. Is it madness or sentimentalism? Even if it were vomit in the winter of 1947, who would now believe it was someone else's business? Possibly, like Modigliani's men, he's cocking his head on a thin neck, staring. It's not definite what his eyes are looking at. It's no longer clear. No longer definite. No longer clear, the universe. He is like a man awake in it.
Do not laugh. Even if you met a worm's fate, do not laugh, not now. Whether you refuse it or drag it with you, caress that incomparable, invincible fate.
You, alone, are perhaps the first and last man! I abandon a drama, in a far larger drama.
The singing voice recedes. Arms hanging slack, the noise of innumerable footsteps disappears. From the basement room. From the desert. And the lights of the city turn off and on. Melancholy time forms, solemn rentier's life, farewell!
Even if it is related to a boyhood memory on a summer day or the lonely smell evoked on a snowy night, can you imagine a raw vision unsupported by ideas? But after the pianist, I try to support and to constantly amend a raw vision with my eyes and fingers. The wind begins to blow. Good. The universe gradually turns cold. Eye in the stone! The fingers wish desperately to keep their balance. Should I call an eye larger than my eyes eternity? These moments? The eye has appeared. Hiding a smile, he questions. Regarding the self-evident conquest. An order to massacre! Into the space between the eye and the fingers, into the graveyard of culture, I settle. The winter music.