WEBVTT

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This poem is called
"Melancholy."

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I mentioned before in one of the
classes, it's my favorite mood.

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I like to sort of sit-in
a rocking chair and sulk.

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"Melancholy."

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A snowstorm in
the middle of May.

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You sit by the
window chin on palm,

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listening to the sparrows
calling from behind the snow

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drifts, watching the black
ash of the butterfly wilting

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on the branches.

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Nothing can penetrate
this sadness.

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A basket of flowers would
be good for the dead.

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A thaw would turn
the Earth to mud.

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When your wife calls
you down to dinner

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your meal is like the fresh
meat of the locust, the milk,

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blue as your mother's breast.

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The gauze of the curtains
is an eyelid between you

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and the world, some
vague impressions,

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a flotilla of grasses
sinking in the snow, a moon

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without shadow, a bee collapsing
at the heart of the flower.

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