Classic Poem

I wouldn't say night with fog
is particularly free.
No matter where we come across you
there's no line between you and us,
in this town leveled marvelously
by crossfires of accusation,
wherever someone walks
is a boulevard,
but when if rarely an honest wound
peers over your shoulder,
the night with fog, or without,
makes a difference
to your bad conscience.
In the festival-noisy, witch-hunt town,
only its centroid pushed to the top,
even that bastard
passes as a Jacobin,
but if a stone hammer, wherever you swing it down,
sparks the same color,
if a gold coin, whoever flips it,
turns the same face or back,
fog, don't hesitate
to come down in this town
where whip and spur collude!
I wouldn't say night with fog
is particularly free, but if
only the petty thieves who haggle,
get their wayward shadows, and walk off the fair
and the pennies wet with lamp oil
scatter onto distant pavements,
even if the man who placed the night on a whetstone
whirls off in a gust,
until the day breaks
unexpectedly
between your legs blocking the way,
the fog comes to draw the line
to this faceless town
where daybreak repeats daybreaks,
where sunset repeats sunsets.