#434 Untitled

I made a casual remark to him and he replied in like manner.

We climb it,
or were brought to it,
or we were born in the house on the hill.

There are more out-of-towners on the eastern
than the western side of the square.

On the crests of the half-coloured,
half-shaded rooftops,

the last slow rays of the departing sun take on colours
that are not their own nor of the things they light up.

Only they know we're the prey of the illusion they created for us.

And then,
taking o his jacket while eyeing his other,
older one that's hanging up,
he says: 'To be here all alone is a real bore,
Senhor Soares,
and not only that.

Moreira smiled,
the fringes of his face still yellow from the sudden fright,

and his smile was no doubt saying that
the next bolt of thunder would strike further away.

Look out the window of my castle and contemplate not the moonlight and the sea,
which are beautiful and thus imperfect things,
but the vast,
maternal night,
the undivided splendour of the bottomless abyss.

—Chevalier de Pas, A Coroação de Jorge Quinto