Fifteen boys and maybe more,
or fewer than fifteen, maybe,
said to me
in frightened voices:
“Let’s go to a movie or the Museum of Fine Arts.”
“I haven’t time.”
Fifteen boys presented me with snowdrops.
Fifteen boys in broken voices
said to me:
“I’ll never stop loving you.”
I answered them more or less like this:
“Well see.”

Fifteen boys are now living a quiet life.
They have done their heavy chores
of snowdrops, despair and writing letters.
Girls love them —
some more beautiful than me,
others less beautiful.
Fifteen boys with a shoe of freedom, and at times spite
salute when we meet,
their liberation, normal sleep and regular meals.

In vain you come to me, last boy.
I shall place your snowdrops in a glass of water,
and silver bubbles will cover
their stocky stems…
But, you see, you too will cease to love me,
and, mastering yourself, you’ll talk in a superior way,
as though you’d mastered me,
and I’ll walk off down the street, down the street…

Translation by George Reavey