The Current of Time
The map of the water dissolves among the stones,
where the light insists on cataloging the brilliance.
There are no heroes here, only the inventory
of what the flow decides, in the end, to abandon.
The moths, nymphs, and fauns of the river,
you see, are beautiful, profound, sad—
like the detail of an old embroidery
that one observes until one loses the thread.
Everything is a matter of scale and renunciation:
the beauty contained in what is brief and floats.
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário