Old dock, silent and serene, Filled with orange misty frost, There I saw him, behind those anchored boats, Wearing cassock and a hat with feather unknown, B arnacles die under his boots, He seems unaware about everything, Physical and existential, Goes beyond and beneath, He is lost Yet he is in his realm, And other end of the rail, Here I am Hostile to myself Returning and departing From what was not mine, Oh traveler, You and me travelling through the same evening sky Same fog and mist, But how different our Journeys are Behind us, the old dock is sleeping with its warm winter night blanket Dreaming about other night travelers…