There’s nothing that I really want:
The stars tonight are rich and cold
Above my house that vaguely broods
Upon a path soon lost in dark.
My dinner plate is chipped all round (It tells me that I’ve changed a lot); My glass is cracked all down one side (It shows there is a path for me).
My hands—I rest my head on them. My eyes—I rest my mind on them. There’s nothing that I really need Before I set out on that path.