There s The Iron Rod s Grilles On A Window

       There's the iron rod's grilles on a window.
       P'raps it's not. Or it seems just to me.
       And from somewhere in that rush'n'hour press
       There's the bus that moves on from somewhere.
       And the people move on in that bus which moves on
       With their cares and their thoughts and their own.
       And they all move on that rush'n'hour bus.
       P'raps it's not. Or it seems just to me.
       And I think everyone from those people did not
       Think about this window and me.
       Now it's spring with a love,
       With a cold in the head,
       With the different kinds of ID's,
       With the photos of wives, and no-wives, and who-knows,
       With the great peacock's tales and cocktails.
       Now it's spring with the palms,
       With a sand and the gangs,
       With the bitch on a beach and the queens,
       With the music of sweetest and lazy refrains,
       With the zigzags and breathing of rhythms,
       With the red, wet and perspering faces on it,
       Whose been tricked into shadows and masks.
       And nobody, noone from the huge galaxy
       That makes haste live without the time,
       Feels the press of the time,
       Knows and thinks of the time,
       Of my window, of course,
       And of me.
       But I see as I can
       And I feel as I may
       Through that window with iron rods' grilles,
       From my corner, my islet, my small poor town
       I can see just the whole Universe...