A passer-by asks:

Where from? Where to? I walk on --


with him, in silence.

Characters, even

lifelike, are only alive --


within the story.

It's always the same:

there must be a better way --


So, should I do it?

I walk through the village
The sun shines, the wind blows
a little through my hair

The shutters are closed
with chinks thin as needles
with long narrow eyes
      
My shadow doesn't fall inside
anywhere, there are none
in the dim rooms
      
where the light drearily
obscures what is going on
and what the consequences are

of everyone's comings and goings
The peeping people press me
as compelling devils

out of their eyes
out of the chinks in their lives
The sun upon me is insufferable