I offer myself to you
as an hidden hand
between the folds of the night.
And the lights run always the same
on deformed tracks running
to the sea cutting
the vault of the night in
deep and painful galleries which
ready to swallow up us,
lifeless close again on our fate unknown
running along
the narrow tracks of life:
no light inside,
no light outside,
the night join again the night, which,
long since, buried the moon in
a cradle of clouds,
gloomy interposed to the image of
truth, abandoned in the
store-room of time
