This is the hour of fallen leaves, their dust scattered over the earth, when they return to the depths of being and not being and abandon the gold and the greenery, until they are roots again, and again, torn down and being born, they rise up to know the spring.

I ask permission to be like everybody else,
like the rest of the world
and what's more,
like anybody else:
I beg you with all my heart,
if we are talking about me,
since we are talking about me,
please resist blasting the trumpet
during my visit and resign yourselves
to my quiet absence...