I am always going from door to door,
Whether in rain or heat,
And sometimes I will lay my right ear in
The palm of my right hand.
And as I speak my voice seems strange as if
It were alien to me,
For I’m not certain whose voice is crying:
Mine or someone else’s.
I cry for a pittance to sustain me.
The poets cry for more.
In the end I conceal my entire face
And cover both my eyes;
There it lies in my hands with all its weight
And looks as if at rest,
So no one may think I had no place where-
Upon to lay my head.