Those who sailed at dawn br but will never return br left their trace on a wave-- br br a shell fell to the bottom of the sea br beautiful as lips turned to stone br br those who walked on a sandy road br but could not reach the shuttered windows br though they already saw the roofs-- br br they have found shelter in a bell of air br br but those who leave behind only br a room grown cold a few books br an empty inkwell white paper-- br br in truth they have not completely died br their whisper travels through thickets of wallpaper br their level head still lives in the ceiling br br their paradise was made of air br of water lime and earth an angel of wind br will pulverize the body in its hand br they will be br carried over the meadows of this worldbr br Zbigniew Herbertbr br