" A man has but one body, like a single cell.
The soul is sick and tired of it’s too solid shell, with ears, mouth, eyes the size of a nickel coin and skin all scarred and diced, spread over a skeleton.
Through cornea it wings to a heavenly spring, to ice-laden slings, to a chariot birds bring.
It hears through the grating of it’s living prison pen.
The fields’ and forests’ rattling, the Even Seas’ refrain.
Without body a soul’s nude, as a body’s nude without a shirt: no thought’s forthcoming, no good, no idea’s born and no word.
A question that has no answer: whoever can come back from the floor where no dancer was ever to leave track?
I dream of another soul, in quite a different garb: while shifting between dole and hope, it burns up, like alcohol, and goes away, casts no shadow and just leaves as mementoes the lilacs smelling of meadow.
Run on, my child, do not lament the fate of poor Eurydice, just keep on driving to globes’ end.
Your copper hoop for all to see, as long as answering to your step. However slight might be a tone;
the earth sends signals gay and pep to every energetic bone. "