prothalamium

come

all of you who are not satisfied

as rulers in a lone wallpapered room

full of mute birds and flowers that falsely bloom

and closets choked with dreams that long ago died

come

let us sweep the old streets like a bride

sweep out the dead leaves with a relentless broom

prepare for spring as if he were our groom

for whose light footstep eagerly we bide

we'll sweep out the shadows

where the rats long fed

sweep out our shame and in its place we'll make

a bower for love

a splendid marriage bed

fragrant with flowers a quiver for the spring

and when he comes

our murdered dreams shall wake

and when he comes

all the mute birds shall sing

and when he comes

all the mute birds shall sing