On the path which was throwing open
in the dusk –
amongst some trees of walnuts
a traveler is coming.
He is reaching the heart with a quiet step
resembling a babble
of a water under a root
or an open embrace,
arms of air and of a quiet dream.
A faraway evening bell.
That’s an hour which in the homes
as the children they fall asleep
by their father after a plough
and the travelers come back
with a path.