A dry soul told me everything is burning
Hold on for one moment,
stubs for arms the next.
But what's so hard about that?
I'll simply fly apart, I said
and lost the threshold.

I was right not to listen
But I was wrong to think him right.
For behind each indiscretion
Someone endured,
lifting the road to meet
each step
and enveloping like a mist
between distant bonfires.

My Ephesian friend,
I have finally learnt
the meaning of detachment:
the arid, hyperborean Soul
desolates herself
Not for her desert perambulation
but for the cool, wet
air of an alpine home.