Each in the most hidden sack keptthe lost jewels of memory, intense love, secret nights and permanent kisses, the fragment of public or private happiness.A few, the wolves, collected thighs, other men loved the dawn scratchingmountain ranges or ice floes, locomotives, numbers. For me happiness was to share singing, praising, cursing, crying with a thousand eyes.I ask forgiveness for my bad ways: my life had no use on earth.
The days aren't discarded or collected, they are beesthat burned with sweetness or maddenedthe sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net. They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn't divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion,a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metalthat climbs or descends burning in your bones.