In the winter time
I found work to do:
Gathering corpses of poets.
That is, on days of warm-weather
A brick flies toward a crowd
And slam, down falls the poet, a whole group of poets,
A flurry of suicides
Solving their problem of being alive,
Lightening the burden of the earth.
In sorrow I gather the corpses;
I piously trust they have entered Heaven.
I can only pick up
Their fleshly envelopes and clothes.
All through the winter I work
I work without stopping,
May be I'll even get paid.
Secretly I hope
They will give me a share
Of sunlight from Heaven.