In the lonely town,
Silence marches like a garrison.
A man looks out a window,
A window square,
And imagines you will come.
Why is he in exile,
In love with his grief—
Had you planned this misery, this pathos?
Or has a passing face
Together with his grief
become in his soul
A sadness as inexplicable, perhaps,
As a tear's circle found
On a distant star?