With a dozen blows the clock betrays the pulse of time,
And the day-forged sun
Now begins its retreat amid a blaze of sparks.
The walls of races, of banks, of asylums
Blind me; I watch; far away
A single gap opens in the wall of fate,
Far off far off, it’s the vast estuary of death
Where all my daily dreams converge.
As all the poems of my immaturity flare up
I will keep the ashes of their death on my face
Until the new germination.
I feel myself lonely and slender in the mirror of the lightning.
The tree my friend turns down his wick
Which watched over my thirst for the shadows;
I go forth in the sunlight
And, diviner with empty bag, I walk painfully
Through the fires of the centre.
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