As wintry day grows dim, as calm shades touch
Descending on our souls, reflections cross
Into a mirror darkened now and lost:
Such perhaps is death. Yes, perhaps, just such.
Alone in tomb-like murk, a red flame sways
From my cigar, a wondrous jewel bright;
My fire once doused, a trace will drift away –
A fragrant, slender fume to endless night.
Who set this fire ablaze? Whose fingers dear,
Whose sparkling rings cascaded along the keys?
Both sadness fills my soul, and ecstasy,
Because this tomb-like murk I do not fear.