The subjects of sleep,
Their faces once awake
On sodomy and death
And smoke and laughter.
Their feet no longer underground.
The snow hides the traces
Never set in a first place.
This negative kingdom,
They horrible and white,
The angels all stone
Passing their years.
Hoping to be saved
From oblivion,
Not by oblivion.
And the miracle is that
Nothing has happened,
Nothing has a history
Or a name.
Only the voice
Of falling snow.