The observant one takes in signs.
He also gives them outward.
He reads dates of birth,
And waits for the moment
to declare his own.

The world is molded from signs,
In weather and in surnames, in thoughts and in words.
Ungirded and fastened,
Combed and disheveled —
In signs there is joy, in signs there is fear.

I guess and I suspect,
Having turned this way
Or glanced that way —
Again and again I repeat about myself:
My true name is Sign.