You drink breakfast. The cemetery's damp earth 
smells of beloved blood.
City of winter...The caustic crusade 
of a cart that seems to drag     
a feeling of fasting in chains!

 
           You long to knock on every door, 
and ask for I don't know whom; and then
seeing the poor and crying quietly, 
to give everyone bits of fresh bread. 
And to strip the rich of their vineyards
with your two blessed hands
that with a single blow of light
flew unnailed from the Cross!

 
           Don't rise, matinal eyelash!
Give us our daily bread...
Lord!

 
           All my bones are strangers;
perhaps I stole them!
I gave myself what was,by chance, 
assigned to another;
and I think -- if I'd not been born, 
another poor fellow would be drinking this coffee!
I'm a terrible thief...Wherever I go!

 
           And in this frigid hour, when the earth
smells of human dust and is so sad, 
I want to knock on every door
and beg forgiveness of I don't know whom,    
and bake bits of fresh bread for him,  
here, in the oven of my heart...!