I empty myself of the names of others.
I empty my pockets. I empty my shoes and I leave them beside
the road. At night I turn back the clocks; I open the family
album and look at myself as a boy.
What good does it do? The hours have done their job.
I say my own name. I say goodbye.
The words follow each other downwind.
I love my wife but send her away.
My parents rise out of the thrones
into the milky rooms of clouds. How can I sing?
Time tells me what I am. I change and I am the same.
I empty myself of my life and my life remains.