The poem’s father is a drunk.
The poem’s mother becomes cold-hearted.
The poem reads as translation.
It begins the first
of many affairs.
Snow is falling
off the roof.
The crows are beautiful,
serrate the dark,
which is beautiful,
with their flight,
just after dusk.
I’m empty,
too, you know,
I’m nothing
but a whore
of dusk.