The city stopped at the point of my pen. And power multiplied like steps on a smooth dancefloor. And the evening's necklace, like eyes strung on the track of the dark, began to rustle.
Meshed summers behind the doors of houses and inhabitants from quiet shadows sensed this prismatic joy in the bready warmth of the sun and deaf peace of the rain.
It happened at a troubled hour when all that is red pales, when all that yellow quietens, when every shadow rests on the oars and sails, and when a darkened track hovers over all, for no clear reason.
And I recognised at once that condensation of violet. Of course I did: in place of the edge of the sky a city had stopped at the point of my pen.
And I watch it, and I watch myself, standing here at the edge of the table, and my gaze is a border of lights and of angles, intricate and lazy, because it belongs to me; while roofs and towers come down the darkened corridor, islands and seas come, sounds and city-squares come. While the I go by.

Translation: 2007, Kim Burton