And his footsteps write poetry on sands.
His eyes write on stars.
His quiescence quavers the air,
But the end is far and far.
Then his shadow drafts on the dark.
And existence sinks in a jerk.
He lit the lamp of his heart,
Setting his thirst apart.
Who knows,
It may be my thirsty soul,
Who writes your name twinkling the eye,
On the southern star and mist,
On the thirst of solitude sky.