Текст песни Иосиф Бродский - Натюрморт

This is my favorite poem by Brodsky.
If not a favorite at all, in principle.

"When the darkness grows sick,
then I will speak. "

"The thing is space, outside
which thing is not. "

"This is absurd, a lie.
Skull, skeleton, scythe.
Death will come. She has
will be your eyes. "

...

Why, all the lines, without exception, are priceless.