I was walking the streets of Ardmore,
   accosting passing leaves one day,
   when my brother spoke to me.

   "Brother, why are you walking?
   "Brother, why are your feet still treading the ground?
   "Brother, why are you still here that I be asking you questions?"

   I was walking the streets of Ardmore,
   accosted by my brother,
   and I spoke to him.

   "Brother, what is this surprise at my mobility?
   "Brother, what is this contempt for my motility?
   "Brother, what is this questioning of me?"

   I was walking the streets of Ardmore,
   according passion unto my brother,
   and confirming, he spoke to me.

   "Brother, what mistakes you've made!
   "Brother, what mistakes are you not remembering?
   "Brother, what mistake you are making,

   walking the streets of Ardmore,   
   accosting the passing leaves,  
   confirming everything the people say."

   "Brother," I reply, "to my regret have I remembered.
   "Brother," I reply, "to my shame have I recalled.
   "Brother," I accuse, "whose rumours do I confirm?"

   We walk the streets of Ardmore,
   words approximating our communication.
   My brother speaks to me.

   "Brother, the rumours of the women who would see you down,
   "Brother, the rumours of the men who hold you down for gain,
   "Brother, the rumours of that woman you used to love."

   "Brother, the woman that I used to know,
   "that woman no longer treads these streets of Ardmore,
   "she stopped walking them long ago.
   "She's not here to answer my questions."

   And as I was walking the streets of Ardmore,
   no one could see to whom I was talking,
   where I was going,
   or that I had said anything at all.