歌词
He disappeared in the dead of winter
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted
And snow disfigured the public statues
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day
Oh, all the instruments agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day
Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems
But for him it was his last afternoon as himself
An afternoon of nurses and rumours
The provinces of his body revolted
The squares of his mind were empty
Silence invaded the suburbs
The current of his feeling failed
He became his admirers
Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living
But in the importance and noise of tomorrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual
Oh, all the instruments agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day