When it is my time to leave
how much of myself shall I take?
Lighter the head of memories
or heavy the suitcase filled of relics stacked.
Do I go in autumn just before
the winter storms
lay barren my North, bearing
down amid the gloomy leaf less trees.
Or should I choose
spring just before the summer
when orange blossom still prevails
the early morning air.
Such is this weak annihilation of mine
observed through eyes now blocked to light.
When all, but a slender residue of calm,
and you might cry:
for knowing that I’ll not return