The modern poet of the keys
today inscripts his frieze
on the sketchy fleeting screen
with the tongue of the Queen.
By the strange words, far born,
he uses for his poetry,
he can not get a simple bread
nor ticket for the local train.
He will not write a Scottish play
nor put in words one Irish day
but with working and allies
he could win the Austrian prize.
He left his home, it’s going to decline
like all the other empty hives,
it remains the worldwide one,
a lonesome bee, the swarm is gone.