The Last Bus

Midnight. The last bus.
The conductor cuts me a ticket. 
Neither bad news nor a big dinner
               is waiting for me at home.
For me, absence waits.
I approach it without sadness 
               or fear.

The great dark is closing in. 
Now I can look at the world
               quietly and at peace.
I'm no longer surprised by a friend's treachery, 
               a knife concealed in a handshake. 
It's useless-the enemy can't provoke me now. 
I passed through the forest of idols
               with my axe-
               how easily they all came down.
I put my beliefs to the test once more,
       I'm thankful most of them turned out pure. 
I have never been radiant this way, 
               never free like this.

The great dark is closing in. 
Now I can look at the world
               quietly and at peace.
Suddenly the past comes back 
when I'm not looking-
               a word
                         a smell
                                   the gesture of a hand.
                                   The word is friendly,
                                           the smell beautiful-
                                           the hand is in a hand, my love.
The call of memory no longer makes me sad. 
I have no complaints about memories. 
In fact, I can't complain about anything,
not even about my heart
               aching nonstop like a big tooth.

The great t dark is closing in.
Now neither the seer's pride nor the scribe's claptrap. 
I'm pouring bowls of light over my head, 
I can look at the sun and not be blinded. 
And perhaps what a pity-
               the most beautiful lie
                          will no longer seduce me.
Words can't make me drunk anymore,
neither mine nor anyone else's.
That's how it goes, my rose.
Death now is awfully close.
The world is more beautiful than ever.
The world was my suit of clothes,
                                    I started undressing.
I was at the window of a train,
                      now I'm at the station.
I was inside the house,
                      now I'm at the door-it's open. 
I love the guests twice as much.
And the heat is blonder than ever,
                          the snow is whiter than ever.

                                                21 July 1957 
                                                Prague