The Night of a Solitary

How bitter is the furniture in the room of the solitary.

The table is an animal, frozen stiff from the cold,

the chair is a child that has lost its way in the snow-covered forest

the sofa again becomes a bare tree, felled in the courtyard by the

wind.

And yet, in a little while, in there, is achieved

a round, limpid silence like the lantern on a fishing boat

and you completely crouched in the hollow by your bitterness,

gaze through the water at the diaphanous, luminous deep,

with the crystalline, dark green crevices,

the unfamiliar ocean vegetation,

and you gaze at the rose-colored, apathetic, enormous fish with

their noble, wide movements,

so long that you cannot tell if they are lying in ambush, or ex-

ploring, or sheltering themselves, or simply dreaming,

because their eyes are opened so wide that they seem completely

closed.

And in the end, this has no importance whatsoever.

Isn't it perhaps enough that their movement is like beauty and

like immobility?