the time of wood,
to ask permission here of God
– he or she who has no name and no shape –
who tolerates here the hands of an old man
which eliminated the story of the seasons.
I fell into the forest’s counting rhyme,
I sat and I touched, I admired
the child I had not been.
Who are you ? I asked
I am the sun which nobody sees,
it replied. I half-closed my eyes,
I entreated myself to never think of
nothing again, to center the sea of nothingness.
I didn’t dress my soul in peace,
which didn’t appear.
I only sensed
the terror of the matter
nestled, ring upon ring, one
year after another. How weak we are, it
said. And here I thought you were prepared for stone.
No, dear man, not even stone dreams serene
Translated by Eleonora Matarrese