One suddenly comes to realize
that the tree
the streets
the rain
the sun
the vertigo
are not the same tree
the same space
the climate of another time
the passion of love
but the empty color of the dreamless object.
One suddenly opens the window
to feel the freshness of the afternoon
to catch doves with one’s eyes
and hear the passing of the clouds
and watch the silence
that advances, whimsically,
toward the night
where one’s hands tremble.
In the background
the empty bottle upon the table
the emptied room
an errant bird
and in the center
like the finest of rain
the heart
warm and surprised
still heeds the fire of life
and the angels’ request.
One comes to suddenly realize
that time is a return
that the clouds are the color of the heart
and that is enough.
Translated by Lawrence Schimel