III.

A man has one body,
so solitary.
The soul is sick
of this solid sheath
with ears and eyes
the size of buttons
and skin, a mass of scars,
a skeleton's robe.
Fly through the cornea
to the heavenly spring
to the icy spoke,
to the bird's chariot.
Through its prison bars it hears
the clamor of woods and leas,
the trumpet of the seas.
A soul without a body
is like a body without a shirt.
Not a thought for a deed,
not a line or a concept.
A riddle that has no answer:
Who'll return to dance
where there's no one to dance?
I dream of another soul,
dressed in other garb.
I flits from doubt to hope,
burning without a shadow
like alcohol,
and slips away
leaving a memento:
Some lilac on the table
child, fret not
over poor Eurydice
but drive your copper hoop
through life
while in response to every step
you hear the Earth reply.
Merry is its voice, and dry.