I came through the forest and went through the Winter
        Palace,
Built in 1754–1762,
I let the exalted being out of the bottle and she
Was finished! emptied! aborted!
I am on my way to the region that is no place,
Listen, you who like climbing monuments,
Tourist, listen, perhaps you don't even know
I hardly get my expenses back, writing these poems, on
       my way
To the region that is no place.

I think there will be a glen in the unhewn woods,
A hole, rimmed by treetops,
Where I hang, in that hole, head downwards,
And it is the sky,
And it is me, who does not care for discussions,
Who won't return, who does not want to return.

My.breath I blew out and left it here,
Not to spoil that region
By shouting.

But then I had to borrow it back, to say goodbye,
And I stole it, and here I am, now, carrying it
Towards the region that is no place,
Away
From this poem.