And a short poem, if I can find it here.
It's called "The Secret of Poetry."
"When I was lonely, I thought of death.
When I thought of death, I was lonely.
I suppose this era will continue.
I shall enter each gray morning, delighted by frost,
which is death, and the trees that stand alone, and mist.
When I met my wife, I was lonely.
Our child in her body is lonely.
I suppose this era will go on and on.
Mornings-- I kiss my wife's cold lips, nights--
her body, dripping with mist.
This is the era that fascinates.
I suppose you are secretly lonely, thinking of death,
thinking of love.
I'd like, please, to leave when you're still
just one cold flower, whose beauty would
leave you inconsolable all day.
The secret of poetry is cruelty."