Translated by Max Hayward and Stanley Kunitz

    Here is my gift， not roses on your grave，

    not sticks of burning incense¹.

    You lived aloof²， maintaining to the end

    your magnificent disdain³.

    You drank wine， and told the wittiest⁴ jokes，

    and suffocated⁵ inside stifling⁶ walls.

    Alone you let the terrible stranger in，

    and stayed with her alone.

    Now you're gone， and nobody says a word

    about your troubled and exalted⁷ life.

    Only my voice， like a flute⁸， will mourn

    at your dumb funeral feast.

    Oh， who would have dared believe that half-crazed I，

    I， sick with grief for the buried past，

    I， smoldering⁹ on a slow fire，

    having lost everything and forgotten all，

    would be fated to commemorate¹⁰ a man

    so full of strength and will and bright inventions，

    who only yesterday it seems， chatted with me，

    hiding the tremor¹¹ of his mortal pain.