Before opening the gas she thinks about her canary.
Before ending things once and for all with life,
She takes the birdcage and goes on the balcony.
The freezing winter wind grabs her, gives her chills.
She opened the gas and lies on her bed.
On the turntable she put her favorite record.
Already she is not clear minded:
She sees strange flowers, bizarre flowers and butterflies.
As on London slowly comes the night,
On the table by the sleeping girl
One can read, hastily written with pencil,
Only these few words: the canary is on the balcony