(from his last notebooks, translated by Frederick Seidel):

She loves me? She loves me not?

I wring
My hands and scatter the broken-off fingers.
Like petals you pluck from some
White litlte flower along your way.
You hold them up to the breeze,
They’ve told your fortune.
They drift off into May.

Now a haircut
Lays bare thorns of gray,
Though my morning shave shows me
On the bib the salt of age,
I hope, I believe

I will never weaken.
Never be caught
Showing good sense.

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