Capitolo 15
The light gusts to his/her ears a sound of laughter,
The young men stir to work the feet, dawdlers in the light of the sun;
The rings of laughter of a girl as a silver bell.
But clearer than all these sounds I am a sound that he feels
More in heart secret his that in his/her ears,--
A hammer consolidates growing, as a tolled funeral.
He feels the growl of pineboards under the airplane,
The rhythmic saw, and then the hammer again,--
Playing with delicate hits that it climbs dark. . .
And the fountain decreases, the light of the sun seems to turn pale.
Time is a dream, he thinks, a dream that destroys;
It places the great cities in dust, he/she fills the seas;
It covers the face of the beauty, and it falls walls.
Where was the woman him you/he/she loved? Where was its youth?
Where was it the dream that burned his/her brain as fire?
A dream also grows finally makes grey and falls.
Him once more it opened his/her book close to the window,,
And he/she read the printed words on that page.
The light of the sun touched its hand; its eyes slowly stirred,
The calm words enchanted time and age.
'Died it is never an end, death is a change;
Death is beautiful, for death it is strange;
Death is one he/she dreams out of another flowing;
Death is a music of chorded, while slightly going
From sweet transition from key richer key.
Death is a place of meeting of sea and sea.'
YOU. ADELE AND DAVIS
You turned his/her head on the pillow, and once more he/she cried.
And drawing a shaken breath, and closing his/her eyes,
To close out, if she was able, this dark room,
The wigs and customs sprinkled around the floor,--
Yellows and vegetables in the dark,--she walked again
Those road of nightmare that her so often you/he/she had walked. . .
Here, to a certain angle, under an arc-lamp,
Blown by an intense wind, she stopped him and it looked
In through the bright windows of a medicine-shop,
And he/she wondered if she dared to ask poison:
But it was the dead ones, few clients were there,
The eyes of all the employees would freeze on her,
And she would fade, and to whine. . . Here, from the river,