The poem
I have shut my windows. I do not want to hear the weeping. But from behind the grey walls. Nothing is heard but the weeping.
There are few angels that sing. There are few dogs that bark. A thousand violins fit in the palm of the hand. But the weeping is an immense angel. The weeping is an immense dog. The weeping is an immense violin. Tears strangle the wind. Nothing is heard but the weeping.