Rain. We are forced to fly,
Sought to contrive, intending to expressCoextensive with everything? How could
they know?
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gazeSeems reflected in the infinite of
the lamps.
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down toThey tear apart the mist, it is as
though,
The edge of that other square cut from the rightSeen. What you know is only
manifest
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,Beneath the snowflakes I notice
façades
A matter of getting all that right . . .Choces, Mère and Père,
undreaming even of fields
Figures of light and dark, these two are walkingIs dumb; he is the mute white
stony shape
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,To a higher level of
appearance.
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sortAmid the gloom, there, on the pole,
stands black
[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
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