On the road with billowing poplars,

In a country flat and desolate

To the far-off gray horizon, wherein obscurely,

A man and a woman went on foot,

Each carrying a small suitcase.

They were tired and had taken off

Their shoes and were walking on

Their toes, staring straight ahead.

Every time a car passed fast,

As they’re wont to on such a stretch of

Road, empty as the crow flies,

How quickly they were gone—

The cars, I mean, and then the drizzle

That brought on the early evening,

Little by little, and hardly a light

Anywhere, and then not even that.