Another Favorite, by Adam Zagajewski.
Little Waltz
The days are so vivid, so bright
that even the slim, sparse palms
are covered in the white dust of neglect.
Serpents in the vineyards slither softly,
but the evening sea grows dark and,
suspended overhead like punctuation
in the highest script, the seagulls barely stir.
A drop of wine’s inscribed upon your lips.
The limestone hills slowly melt
on the horizon and a star appears.
At night on the square an orchestra of sailors
dressed in spotless white
plays a little waltz by Shostakovich; small children
cry as if they’d guessed
what the merry music’s really saying.
We’ve been locked in the world’s box,
love sets us free, time kills us.
In my head, when I think of this poem, I always invert the last line to be "Time kills us, love sets us free". Like that, it is hopeful but a little trite. When I read it from a book I'm always a little suprised at the beautiful, abrupt bleakness of the last sentence, and urgentness it conveys.
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