suicide poem

i wonder where you live
there is a country full of wine
for these white arms about my neck
the snow whispers about me
to clothe the fiery thought
i make my shroud, but no one knows
days endeared to every muse
she burst fierce wine
who will be naming the wind
in the cloud-gray mornings
in an old chamber softly lit
perhaps
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor