I stepped out of myself yesterday
And walked past the old wooden bridge,
Hanging so poorly over the murky stream
That was no longer there.
Only tall grass and crickets were conversing
As I passed overhead, and woodlice were dropping
Beneath my steady feet
To serve as company to them.

So I reached the last border,
Past which there was nothing of me anymore,
And I dropped to the ground and lied flat on my back
On the edge, looking out.
Lifted my neck, arched my chest,
Watching carefully at the very clear line;
Merging black skies with blue earth,
Or rather blue sea turning pink
At this time of dusk.

And I roll over,
One hundred and eighty degrees,
And the skies are now eerily purple,
Reflected in eyes eagerly fixed on
A sea holding on to a very dark,
Almost black, shade of gray.

So I stepped back into myself,
Turned away from that path,
Walked in the house, switched on the lights;
Black sea spring will only be there
As long as I'll be willing to leave me behind.

And that's the last time I ever did that.