In this street, but time ago,
in my twenties,
from night to night, with cigar and lamp,I used to write poems.
Around me, the crowd was sleeping
dreaming of money
and one statue mendet the blue of its shade.
I never knew what elf behind my back
-volatile and persistent-
used to stare at me
phrase by phrase, letter by letter.
No, it was not that almost corporeal blue
torn from the marble,
or my guardian angel, benighted,
in hard vigil,
nor a Hamletian spectrum,
truthful up to the mystery,
or any sudden presence
of that time.
None of anything or anyone,
it was myself, the very myself,
but not the one of that time: -this one
that is already sixty,
-this was the elf ...
The one that returns here looking for the young,
in the same street, at midnight,
and calls me,
and it’s not a dream.
(translation: g.c.)
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