Last night, the man was coming from the falling wall,
So as long he was dying and crying like an absurd baby.
His lamenting offered a sailor his hat, a soldier his boots,
For the spiritual way was not for those wrapped up in life.
The falling wall was the wailing hall, sacred monument
Of pleasures that conquer those of a prophet’s, licking flames
From the furnace of heaven, striving towards the gates of
Heaven, looking to the awkward hospital of feet and legs.
For Self had passed away, internally and externally, like a dream,
Forgetting the doctrines of sleepiness, like the whole shepherd
Who heard men say their commands, state their superiorities,
Varnish their houses, as this lonely shepherd stood in sheep’s heaven.