footprint poem

all those treasures that lie
i am dying
passing through huddled and ugly walls
now while my lips are living
master of human destinies am i
and my name is truthful
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
one with you
do the boys and girls still go
over the river, on the hill
there by the window in the old house
to come so soon to this imagined dark
when the hours of day are numbered
of sun nor stars