Still smoke cigarettes when I

   Am down here and write

With both lips

   These lipstick songs

As the night is odd, the sun

   Burning in the house by bulbs

And flowers scenting, sails

   And ships on the water

Dreaming with a lot of daughters

   Fishing and nothing said

And you after all, so sad

   And brown and still silent, still

It is winter, in an hour I

   Will be the running man