Days
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,
kingdom,
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.
