Doubly silent the afternoon
By virtue of empty summer, and of a flame
Overflowing, is it from this vase
Or from somewhere higher in the sky?
So we’ve slept: I don’t know how many
Summers in the light; and I don’t know
In what spaces our eyes are opening.
I listen, nothing vibrates, nothing ends.
Desire shaping the image, lost in thought,
Barely turns, on its simple axis, the clay
Of a dream awekening, soaked with darkness.
Yet the sun buzzes at the windowpane
And, its soul wrapped its red elytra,
Drops, but peacefully, toward the land of the dead.