I’d happily survey the world
With affable calm like St. P.
When you’ve outstripped yourself, you’ll see
The allure of ultimate return.
Having taken under my wing
Bricks, mortar, and things of that sort,
A tuning fork is all I’m short
Of to get me stuck in again.
And struck by its recognition
Of me it would be a talisman
Guaranteeing that I too am
Wrought thus: a smile, a street, a station.
Translated by Robert Reid