Louise Glück

I am
at work, though I am silent.

The bland

misery of the world
bounds us on either side, an alley

lined with tress; we are

companions here, not speaking,
each with his own thoughts;

behind the trees, iron
gates of the private houses,
the shuttered rooms

somehow deserted, abandoned,

as though it were the artist’s
duty to create
hope, but out of what? what?

the word itslef
false