Once more spring pulls young leaves from buds

and the earth hides its tears under primrose.

But a man is only a ship anchored in himself, in his history,

his time, a big ship decaying on the village pond

forgetting there are other beings, other societies and worlds:

fishes building nests or surfacing to breathe,

caravans of penguins arriving on the shore,

ants walking their ancient trails – the soil is alive and moves

its endless feet, flagella, mouth, appendages and antennae.

But a man should be clear, a mirror reflecting everything:

this spring, these birds returning, these triangles, open

and closed sets, and hierarchies –

a man is curved, a closed surface reflecting only himself,

the ancient darkness in his vaults

where even candlelights are weary and names written with soot

cover one another. Everyone wants to perpetuate himself,

one conquers, one discovers, one wins: all looking for

themselves, for their sooty names, suitable place

on the walls and under the vaults of history.

The darkness is deep. And cold carbonic acid gas is rising

and white eyeless fishes are stirring in their pools,

niches in sandstone, everywhere mummies and pyramids of bones,

too little space for the living.

Small indeed is the consolation from what once was said

by another buried alive, small consolation from churches

and castles, from painting and classical music.

A man finds himself moved far away from the living:

beside him, above him, beneath him.

He is closed in himself and has invented his own reflection

and the reflection of that reflection: culture, literature,

architecture. But even this is hopelessly, hopelessly little.

But then? But then, as from another space, from a world

from under other suns, the language of the bees, the intelligence