22
O in spite of Fate: the magnificent overflows
of our existence, spilling over into parks, —
or taking shape as stone men shouldering
tall portals, rearing up under balconies!
O the bronze bell, that daily lifts its cudgel
against the dull quotidian.
Or at Karnak that one column, that column
outliving temples almost eternal.
Today the abundances plunge by, the same ones,
but only as haste, out of the horizontal
yellow day into the dazzlingly exaggerated night.
But the frenzy passes and leaves no trace.
Arcs of flight through the air and those who made them:
perhaps all live on. But only as thought.