Till I love you with my hundredth sense,
The black scorpion will stray with the kiss in the sands,
And I will not doff my gray cloak of skin.

Down with the counter of senses to five or to six,
The miser who counted them off like moldy sticks!
More beautiful things I would throw to stray dogs on the roads.

A fiddle is tree and is water and is ship and is tone,
When the fingers are dead and the bow rows homeward alone.
So I will come with my hundredth sense to my bliss.

A branch will tell his neighbor: there is a God …
A human ear is fated to hear where He trod
When over his bliss the solitary man will reign.

With its hundredth sense, my time, an invisible wind,
Will find its cosmic form in body's labyrinth.
And the helplessness of both I will throw to the dogs.

1965