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Daughters of
Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like
barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless
file,
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
To
each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread,
kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.
I, in
my pleached garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my
morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples,
and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.
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