These Autumn Days

When the door closes

and I go out to darkness

the housewife will smile

and give them the sign to start talking.

They will count all the bread I ate,

the stains on my dress,

the little wrinkles which gathered

round my eyes in my old age.

And they will say "a pity" and "however"

and "of course" and in "in spite of this"

and with cautious kindness sum me up:

"if only not", "yes, perhaps, it could have been."

Far away from gossip and praise

beyond all these words

armoured with cold and darkness

I'll depart to the space of my night.