Analysis of the night lies like a dead man's violin

the night lies like a dead man's violin

on this street you feel like a hermit at the end

the rustling of leaves breaks what cannot be broken
and blue things that were supposed to happen in old age
pull on the sleeve
like a child with naked eyes

leaves behave like your hair at night

the poet walks into people's houses like Saint Nicholas
leaves the silence of extracted larynxes on the windowsills –
for those who get up at night to heat milk