They put his rifle in the depot,
Gave his clothes to someone else.
Neither bread crumbs in his satchel now
Nor lip prints on his can.
Such was the wind
That carried him away.
Not even his name was left.
Only this couplet remained
In his own hand on the coffeehouse wall:
“Death is God’s command,
If only there was no parting.”

translated by George Messo