I paced from one side of the room to the other,
dreaming out loud incoherent and impossible things—deeds I’d forgotten to do,
hopeless ambitions haphazardly realized,
fluid and lively conversations which,
were they to be,
would already have been.
—the true shore can be glimpsed,
lying in the depthless distance.
There are dejections of the soul past all anxiety and all pain; I believe they’re known only
by those who elude human pains and anxieties and are sufficiently diplomatic with themselves to avoid even tedium.
The large and whitely white moon sadly
clarifies the terraced differences in the buildings opposite.
It seems that civilizations exist only to produce art
and literature; words are what speak for them and remain.
Art gives shelter to the sensibility that action was obliged to forget.
These memories are from my dreams.
They’re riddles from the void,
quivering with nothingness,
and through them trickles the useless,
external moaning of the constant rain,
the one incessantly repeated detail of the auditory landscape.
in your vague substance,