The wanderer of the road becomes the road,
and in the garden, near the quiet sea,
the mountain fragrance goes with him; grass mowed
is now dry hay, hot, and smelling pleasantly.
The pilgrim on his lengthy journey held
his heart in check. He found that it was best
to wait; for iron lines to be withheld
until the soul ripened them in his chest.
All this I dreamt: a homicidal time
floating us to our death, relentless, and
in vain, and still the peak of Adam's dream.
I saw a man who in his naked hand
revealed the coals of life, a constant flash
of Heraclitian fire, and yet no ash.
Antonio Machado