The world is that which I look at:

the table that gathers upon it
banal things such as the tablecloth and the glasses,
the milky back of the mountains at dawn,
a chair that receives the slanted afternoon light,
the artichoke leaves lying on a plate.

Life is that which dies:

a hand raised that is already dust and roots,
the word avenging itself for lack of love and failure,
the smell of a soap rubbed on when ten years old,
this wounded earth with bones and shipwrecked persons.

Heaven and its hell, hatred and love,
happiness and unhappiness, the color of light,
are the missed encounter of all these things
dictated by my dark and uncertain heart.