O but memory is not one but many —
a long music we have made
and will make again,
and over, […]
for to memory there is no end. […]
So: I will go on in the snow.
I will have my hope with me.
I look up, as if I could see the snow as it falls,
as if I could keep my eye on a little of it
and see it come down
all the way to the ground.
The snow flowers are all like each other and I cannot keep my eyes on one.
I will give up this and go on.
I will go on. (7)