The tulips have gone over,
Here and there, their bloomless stalks
Are like decapitated
Corpses in some religious

Foreign state. The Mayflower
Is in bloom like a splendid
Bride, white blossoms, and hidden
Branches, where many birds hide,

Whose beautiful songs echo
The countryside, a chorus
Of angels in paradise.
In the house, curtains are drawn,

In the bedroom, a woman
Lies strangled over her bed,
A red cord about her neck;
Her blue eyes staring lifeless

At the pink flowered curtains,
Which seem faded in the sun.