Midday

Along the avenue, how quiet, lucid, slumbering!Taken up by the wind, the sand raced as a waveAnd, like a crumbling comb, splashed on the grass. . . .These days, it soothes me so to come hereAnd sit a long time in semi-forgetfulness.I love, almost without glancing, to listenTo the laughter and crying of children on the little pathBeyond the creek, their resonating playfulness. Wonderful!It is a rustle, just as eternal and truthfulAs the rustle of the rain, the waves of the wind.

No one recognizes me. Here I am simplyA passerby, a local, a "sir"Wearing an anonymous brown coat and round hat,In no way distinct. Near me,A young lady has sat down with an open book. A boyWith a pail and toy shovel has cozied upAt my very feet. Knotting his brows,He busies himself in the sand, and I seem so hugeIn comparison by this proximityThat it makes me recallHow I myself sat on the pediment of the lion columnIn Venice. Above this minuscule life,Above his head, wearing a green peaked cap,I am magnified, like a heavy stone,Centuries old, that has outlived manyKingdoms and folks, betrayals and heroisms.And the boy, in businesslike fashion, is fillingHis little pail with sand and, turning it upside down,Pours it on my feet, on my shoes. . . . How wonderful!

And with a light heart I recallHow hot that Venetian midday was,How above me the winged lion soaredImmobile with an open book in its paw,And how above the lion, growing rounder and pinker,A little cloud scudded. And higher, higher still—The deep and dense blue, and wheeling in it, The invisible but fiery stars.This very moment they are flaming above the boulevard,Above the boy and above myself. Frantically,Their rays are battling the rays of the sun. . . .

                                        The windContinues rustling with its sand-strewing waves,Turning the pages of the young lady's book. And everythingI hear is transformed by some sort of miracle,And in to such full measure fills the heart,That I no longer need neither words nor thoughts,And I look, as though with an inverted gaze,Into myself.And so captivating to the soul are these living waters,That, Narcissus-like, I, from the earthly shoreVanish and fly there, where I am alone,In my private, primordial world,Face to face with myself, lost once upon a time––And rediscovered anew. . . . And barely perceptiblyI hear the young lady's voice: "Please, forgive me.What hour is it?"

1918