Gulls have come again
to consider another beautiful death of the sun.

People were flowers that grew by the shore;
twilight takes them home,
they fade together at their tables.

In the tall green shops the pulleys of birds
lower the last light,
the eyelid of a shadow shuts the hills,
the sound of the ocean walks over the land.

Nobody wants to die.

1968

 = Sarah Kobrinsky