I have filled your house with smoke
 Cannot bring myself to pack
 Knowing that life and death
 Are given by the smallest things
 What is the point of hiding it:
 I cannot leave you, though my body
 Must be subject to rails and boats,
 To the schedules of men.

 If I cannot find the paradise
 Where these do not apply
 Even in your heart,
 If we only talk about it
 The world is still marked
 By my need for it.