They buckle, suffer,
High melting Umbran mountains.
Listen! The frog´s plop!
In the hay-barn
Sleeps my Cello Concerto,
Its tones are still still.
Music is hot air,
Dipped in Orvieto White,
My cigar dying.
Basho´s frying frog
Beside this pool where we languish,
Hot. How long, Oh Lord?
In the deep blue pool
Three generations swimming,
She and he and I.