I am thin of sole and thick of beard.
There is room for my hands in my pockets
and I do walk that way down back streets.

Down dark and narrow alleys,
tributaries to that golden horizon ahead,
I walk and walk but never arrive.

There on the skyline is glass piled high,
floor upon floor looking down at me,
blank eyes neither smiling nor weeping.

But me, I often smile and often weep.
I would all the more were I high in glass
looking down at these streets.

I would look back at where I'd been
and smile
at a long, long journey ended.

I would look back and weep
to see the weary throng
I had left behind.

Would my sorrow for them steal my joy
were I not still thin of sole?