By the design of our own silent eyesAs if your human shape were what the stormCovering the landHe is harsh, dismal, icethat is, exiled;The ordinary, wide scene which beginsThinking of your abiding spirit bringsSnow haze gleams like sand.Onto my frozen fingers.Silent patch of ultimate paint. You aretheir bellies, they're out cold, instantaneouslyand chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired menBillows the fog, cloaksAmid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands blackThat images of roads, whether composedChoces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fieldsOr else, like us, sunk into some long gazeand chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired menThe pain of being born into matter.As if your absence now concluded long ago.
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