I studied the silence of the stars,
the black, icy skies, the skeletons of trees.
For centuries my mind was at work,
sharp yet bitter, and now old and strange.
When I speak, I still lisp like a boy,
and on certain untroubled, lucky nights,
when I dream of the unicorn, its musky smell
and wild hooves —
I imagine that tomorrow will take my hand,
and teach me to write one more book
which will astonish the world.