On the road to d**h
My mother came to a great floe;
She wished to speak,
It was already late,
A great white floe of cotton wool.
She looked at my brother and at me,
And then she wept.
We told her—falsehood quite absurd—we understood.
She gave us then that gracious smile of a young girl,
Which was her very self,
Such a pretty, almost mischievous smile;
Then she was taken into the Opaque.