The poem
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.