Ela, As I Pass By

I cannot hear
my own footsteps.

I am followed by a king
cloud on my right,
circling,
pouring down
meaningless reasons.

On the road nothing moves
except the shadow of a lamppost
before another lamppost.

The trees tremble at the gates
of heaven.

Creaking, raging,
the gray lily of the field.

It seems I will not make it alive.
How can I be defended
by my umbrella,
its skeleton already
branching apart?

Redolence,redolence of signs
coming and departing
if I do not strike
the singing bowl.

A bowl in which I shall seal
the wind and the clouds above the
turbulent sea.