I will become the traveller again

Will tie the shoe laces

Will let the nails grow wandering

And my chin will become a massive bush of hair

Like the massiveness of these mornings

Which is placed between me and a beautiful death.

 

I will approach my beautiful death;

Like a homesick pilgrim

I will promenade among the faces

Like a bird setting on the first tree of the world

When the last star

Falls down into a basket of apples

There, early one morning.