And half the year in snow,
Il fait bien froid, bien froid,
Thoughts go for a slow stroll
Through all the young, wild firs,
Tall, hare-dug grass, and poems.
We have kept this with us,
Half of it in our lines,
Half of it in your skull,
The field that served to show
A point of how games work,
A show of how work goes.
Guess the years it will take
For the ball field to go,
All go, to be all woods.
Or guess how soon the space
Gets bought and cut and mowed
And dug to hold a house.
Both ways, one quick, one slow,
Will end the games for good.
And how long in your skull?
And how long in our lines?
Right now, the games are played
By ghosts. How long for ghosts?
Right now, the hares dig holes
And come out in safe hours,
Few for them. How long, then
For the hares and the ghosts,
Field lines in your skull, games,
Firs, grass, house, and for cold?
