A Variation on Machado

I worry much about the suffering of Machado. I was only one when he carried his mother across the border from Spain to France in a rainstorm. She died and so did he a few days later in a rooming house along a dry canal. To carry Mother he abandoned a satchel holding his last few years of poetry. I've traveled to Collioure several times to search for Machado's lost satchel. The French fed him but couldn't save him. There's no true path to a death — we discover the path by walking. We turn a corner on no road and there's a house on a green hill with a thousand colorful birds sweeping in a circle. Are the poems in the basement of the house on the hill? We'll find out if we remember earth at all.