I am a mere old passing by poet
Who is a body just getting used
To grow old, to be long-winded,
To be in the roseate distraction
Of not being at all , by a big sea,
In a liquidity of disappearance,
Like he with pass in his mouth,
I once passed by, on west wind
When wind made such a pass.
Now I am passing by a big sea
To get used to not being at all,
Empty like sky, on a windy sea.