«We had thought we were beggars, / with nothing at all, / but as loss followed loss / and each day / became a day of memorial, / we began to make songs / about the Lord’s generosity / and our bygone wealth.»
«Choke all week in the fumes and air stinking / of fear, for the bare means of life; / spend the Saturday dozing and drinking, / with your arm round an unlovely wife. Then on Sunday by train for an outing, / with a rug to spread out on the grass, / just to doze off again, never doubting, /...»
«The stars glow blue. The trees are swaying. / A routine evening. Routine winter, too. / All is forgiven. Nothing’s forgiven. / Music and gloom. We are all heroes, we are all traitors; / all words are worthless, each and every one. / My dear contemporaries — / having fun?»
«Farewell, dear friend, farewell — / you’re present in my heart. / We’ll meet again, the stars foretell, / though now we have to part. Goodbye for now, goodbye, dear friend — / no handshake, words or grief. / To die is nothing new — but then, / what new is there in life?»