I have a couple of things to do
Before I leave this spot, this com,
This four-corner roomful floor. . .
I use to spend my time within my Self,
Thinking nothing about businesses
And trades -- I simply don't have any.
Since I believe that all this is a kind
Of stuff and nonsense, what sort of charge
Can I carry on my sloping shoulders?

Still, I'm going to strive until the bitter end
When my last exhalation will provide me
The meeting at the gate with those
Who will meet me upon my soul, not my face,
But who themselves know neither start nor end.
I've spent so many days and nights
On dwelling here; I used to breathe,
Preferring exhalation to inhalation -- that's my credo.

I do prefer it due to its ability to exit
Without any keys for opening the door.
What's more, the damned entrance
Is used to be free -- that's why I don't like it.
My breath, as I've found out, lives in me,
Preferring subtle tints to what is shined and bright.
As to my Self, I'm like a semi-shade
On the whitewashed ceiling
Where only three fishes are swimming fluently
On the deepest bed overturned above my head.

Yes, I've seen my dreams, I've seen them all,
From top to bottom, that's for sure,
Inscrolling canvas of the matrix scroll
With all its running numbers that then
Are intertwined into the weft and warp
Of sacramental fabrication.
Yes, I've seen all my dreams, all the rest
Are just the images from them to be reprinted
On the plain curtain which partitions off
My furnace from the entire world.