Classic Poem

We must buy coal.
On account of the wind
the flowers are constantly losing their petals.

Horseman,
take me to the best firewood store.
At present the chill wind is blowing too hard,
intent on leaving nothing,
not a single word of human speech.

I go to the hearth to light the fire,
but it's full of a pool of golden spittle.
I head southwards in search of live coals but
they tell me some Greek fellow died for that long ago.

I shook my head
and told them “No.”
For the sake of the future,
surely it's better to love the thin ice inside the privy?

Ah, trivial things.
You are all of you covering
far too trivial things.

I won't cover them up.
Horseman.
Gallop across this desolate shore.
So that I can finally rest in the sun.
So that I can reach it.