My Friend. When our Autumn comes, bearing winter with it, let us keep one thought: not of Spring to come, belonging to another, nor yet of Summer, when we're dead, but of what's left of what is passing---The yellowing of these leaves now making them different...

I come from around no-where
I'm going out of the centre of  disaster.
I'm not bringing anything and won't find a thing.
I feel the exhaustion I anticipate from what I won't find.
And my yearning comes not from the past or the future.
I do hope for a better life, somewhere on this planet.
I think, 
I was,
Like the grasses,
Harvested year after year.