The poem
I walk so often, late, along the streets, Lower my gaze, and hurry, full of dread, Suddenly, silently, you still might rise And I would have to gaze on all your grief With my own eyes, While you demand your happiness, that's dead. I know, you walk beyond me, every night, With a coy footfall, in a wretched dress And walk for money, looking miserable! Your shoes gather God knows what ugly mess, The wind plays in your hair with lewd delight--- You walk, and walk, and find no home at all.