The old monk whispers to me from the threshold

Young man, you, walking through the grass of my hermitage,

Is it long before sunset?

I want to give my last breath

together with the snakes crushed at dawn

by the shepherds’ crook.

Didn’t I squirm in the dirt just like them?

Didn’t I twitch in the sun like them?

My life has been everything you want

sometimes beast,

sometimes bloom,

or church bell arguing with the whole sky.

Today I’m silent here, and the grave’s emptiness

resounds inside my ears like a clay cattle bell.

I’m waiting on the threshold for the coolness of end

Is it still long? Come on, young man,

take some dirt in your hand

and scatter it on top of my head, instead of water and wine.

Baptize me with the dust.

The shadow of the world is passing over my heart.