A poet was musing the dark.
I knew it too. I told my friends,
And implied the words were not mine.
But they only laughed
And pushed my head into the penumbra of light.
"Look, look, they eagerly cried;
His face is like thunder, like...
Down where the lonely poplars grow
How often have I erred;
My steps that all the neighbours know
You only have not heard.
Towards your window lighted through
How oft my gaze has flown;
A world entire my secret knew
You only have not...
Time flows by, and has passed like rivers
Since that hallowed moment we first saw each other,
Yet I'll never forget the love we had together,
You miracle, with large eyes and cold fingers.
Oh, come back! To bring words only you can...
Then we met more often.
I stood at one side of the hour,
you at the other,
like two handles of an amphora.
Only the words flew between us,
back and forth.
You could almost see their swirling,
and suddenly,
I would lower a knee,...
Thus, like the skin
of a shorn ewe, the day rises.
It is difficult to skin the self from a stone.
It is difficult to skin memory from a Greek.
But why should we talk about these!
After all,
light too has a skin,
light too can be...
Little by little she became a word,
bundles of soul on the wind,
a dolphin in the clutches of my eyebrows,
a stone provoking rings in water,
a star inside my knww,
a sky inside my shoulder,
and I inside I.
