The creaking wheel of the dust cart; the stumbling horse;
At the corner of the street a crying child; he is lost.
He believes that all is over for him, that his father
Is dead, caught up and carried away
By the thick swarming crowd.
Many women are wearing crape.
The sky is the color of coal crushed on chalk,
The street is like a funnel foaming with bustle and noise,
The universe is marching on, its head in a sack,