Everything is the same: a fine snowstorm
Beats against the windows of the dining room
And even I haven't changed,
But a man approached me.

I asked: "What do you want?"
He said: "To be with you in hell."
I laughed: "Ah, then you prophesy
For both of us, calamity."

But raising his dry hand,
He lightly brushed the flowers:
"Tell me how they kiss you,
Tell me how you kiss."

And he stared at my ring
With fixed, lackluster eyes.
Not a single muscle moved
On his radiant, evil face.

Oh, I know: his consolation--
To realize with passionate intensity
That he needs nothing,
That I have nothing to refuse him.