Blurring the terrain,
Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely
But when, on the timepieces that we call
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
The line between the outside and this room
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
My only thought is for what has
Snow haze gleams like sand.
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Seized from creation by nonentity