I’ll go away for good, yet won’t let you forget me.
I’ll turn into wind and caress your hair when you begin loosening it.
When under the spell of your tune the sky gets drowsy and
the wind cries,
Weeping shall I come and be a pendant on your breast,
Your great festivity will be there and all manner of guests.
Suddenly you’ll think of the beggar bereft of your alms.
White moving toward your bower you’ll suddenly be struck
with pity and pause
And see someone dead mingled with the dust in your path.
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