Goodbye , goodbye , to one place or another ,
to every mouth , to every sorrow ,
to the insolent moon , to weeks
which wound in the days and disappeared ,
goodbye to this voice and that one stained
with amaranth , and goodbye
to the usual bed and plate ,
to the twilit setting of all goodbyes ,
to the chair that is part of the same twilight
to the way made by my shoes .
I spread myself , no question ;
i turned over whole lives ,
changed skin , lamps , and hates ,
it was something I had to do ,
not by law or whim ,
more of a chain reaction ;
each new journey enchained me ;
I took pleasure in places , in all places .
And , newly arrived , I promptly said goodbye
with still newborn tenderness
as if the bread were to open and suddenly
flee from the world of the table .
So I left behind all languages ,
repeated goodbyes like an old door ,
changed cinemas , reasons and tombs ,
left everywhere for somewhere else ;
I went on being , and being always
half undone with joy ,
a bridegroom among sadnesses ,
never knowing how or when ,
ready to return , never returning .
It’s well known that he who returns never left ,
so I traced and retraced my life ,
changing clothes and planets ,
growing use to the company ,
to the great whirl of exile ,
to the great solitude of bells tolling .
The Owl and the Seraphim
megdekorne 