While I lay

Upon thy path, my Lord,

I feared my head might miss

That trace of dust,

That priceless boon

From off thy hallowed feet.

Here alas, the night-winds all too soon

Make approach.

I fear too

That these tiny petals

Stretched for long

Might sadly dwindle down,

That this last breath

Preserved so long

To kiss the jingling

Of thy sacred anklets

Might escape me, too.

I know not how

To bear this raging wind,

This crushing weight

Of night's iron-feet.

Grown a mate to dust and smoke

I rot in these

Woe-tainted walks.

And thou, my Lord

Brushing my trace aside

Movest away

Along the paths of light.