Don’t seek the refuge of the shade
of that green thicket
like the hawk that swoops aslant,
a bolt of lightning in the heat.
And come away now
from the stunted cane stalks; they seem half asleep.
Now is the time
for looking at the forms that life takes as it falls apart.
We’re moving in a cloud of dust,
a shimmer of mother of pearl,
a glare which snares the eyes
and saps our strength.
Yet, in this hour of idleness, unease,
as hot dry air plays over us in waves,
we should not, surely, throw away our aimless lives
into a bottomless abyss.
Like that curve of cliffs
which seems to lose solidity
in spiders’ webs of clouds,
our burnt-up spirits,
where illusion starts a fire
already choked with ashes,
take their flight into the clear sky
of the one thing we are sure of: light.
