The locomotive breaks its run
you descend to adjust your gaze
your century, looking through your narrow point
back into the Australopithecus grove, where, starting,
we hurried to arrive, naïve pleadings, into the rush of age
pagan journey I could tell, when this heart
begins to beat, was no sooner contemplated
before these crevices in my face marked my time
for the poet is he who travels everlastingly
embracing his neighbour embracing his enemy
to love life more to hate death less
in the red evenings the taste of fate
already salting my wounds with regret
goodnight, let us say farewell before we cry.
so that when the fireflies dance round our shadows
nothing would remain but this grove where we ate
the primeval meal before leaving the warm cluster of love
for this cold taste of fate, this glacial world
this night, the locomotive continuing its run
into the never-ending day when I shall embrace tearfully my
enemy.