[делюж]

yet another night with its sweet, suffocating odour of sadness;
august is dying on my windowsill, agonising theatrically,
scalding at noon,
cooling at night, as pallid as a hand of a corpse.
and the ultimate act of bravery these days
is taking out the linens which smell of cleanness and despair
from the wooden womb of the wardrobe,
carrying them in my arms like a bride on the nuptial night,
and with steady hands placing them upon the bed, and tenderly smoothing the creases,
patiently, as though preparing an altar for the nightly sacrifice
of myself,
from myself,
to my recurrent grief.