Like a ball of silk pressed against the wall,
She walks along the fences of a path in Kensington Gardens
And is dying little by little
Of a kind of emotional anemia.
And around her lies the rabble —
The filthy, powerful, immortal infants of the wretched.
They shall inherit the earth.
In her is the end of multiplication.
Her boredom is elegant and excessive.
She would like someone to speak to her,
And she is always afraid
That I might be the one foolish enough to do so.
