The end of the end, the man in the winter garden Asked himself, what could that be? If nothing else, he thought, not any kind of sorrow. He looked outside and saw a cloud that looked Like a cloud, as grey as lead, too heavy For every balance, the bare fig against the wall With the thousand-year-old stones, The geese next door, their disapproval, The way the night needed to be set right, The grammar of expropriation, nobody Themselves anymore, not a single apparition, Withdrawal after defeat But no destination. He'd seen that in the war, defeated soldiers In retreat, frightened, dirty, the mouths That sang so heartily when they marched in Now closed. They had sung of triumph, Their tiny lives had suddenly expanded, Fitted with new futures, victims, others To maltreat, the back of the mirror, Now turned again, the fate of destiny. He remembered it well, the humbled back She saw again now. He was no army but felt The lesson like a rabbit feels the hunter's blow, Imposed without mercy and All over. The war that never stopped coming back, A guest who's known to all, a toothless Kiss, the language of intimate betrayal Around him now again, remembering a past He couldn't share with anyone. His father, A man in a dinner suit leaning on the railing Of the boulevard, his mother alongside the future Deceased, already wrapped in the time to come, And he himself still hidden, the world a cloud Without rules, and behind his parents the sea, The warning no one wanted to hear, always The same, the sound of indrawn breath, Devouring so much.