The skull, the secret heart,
the paths of blood that I don’t see,
the tunnels of sleep (that Proteus),
the guts, the nape, the skeleton.
I am these. Incredibly,
I am also the memory of a sword
and that of a solitary setting sun
that scattered itself in gold, in shadow, in nothing.
I am he who sees the prows from the harbor;
I am the twice-told tales, the tales I tell,
recorded for an exhausted time;
I am he who envies those who have already died.
More rare it is to be one who weaves
words in a room of a house.
the paths of blood that I don’t see,
the tunnels of sleep (that Proteus),
the guts, the nape, the skeleton.
I am these. Incredibly,
I am also the memory of a sword
and that of a solitary setting sun
that scattered itself in gold, in shadow, in nothing.
I am he who sees the prows from the harbor;
I am the twice-told tales, the tales I tell,
recorded for an exhausted time;
I am he who envies those who have already died.
More rare it is to be one who weaves
words in a room of a house.
