He Goes Running, Walking, Fleeing
(For Spanish translation click here)

He goes running, walking, fleeing

from his feet . . .

He goes with two clouds in his cloud

sitting uncertainly, nailed in the hand

his sad “for,” his funeral “then.”

He runs from all, walking

between colorless protests; he flees

rising, he flees

falling, he flees

by measured of the underground cellar, he flees

raising in his arms the evil,

he flees

directly to sob alone.

Where may he be going,

far from his brambles, caustic talons,

far from the air, far from his journey,

at last to flee, flee, and flee, and flee

from his feet—man of two feet, stops

from all this fleeing—he must be thirsty from running.

And not even the tree, if he endorses iron of gold!

And not even the iron, if he covers his foliage!

Nothing, but only his feet

nothing but his short shivering

his living “for,” his living “then” . . .

18 September 1937