Should I hide that I seek art
in silence?
Should I deny that I am the last human
to crawl on the earth?
Are there intrusive winter trills?
Should I deny that autumn has already fled
if blue arrives, with breeze and dreams,
if colors appear, even those of design?
And here comes God, before the Final Judgment,
through the gardens of man. Whether he shouts,
whether he barks at the sky,
and denies them to the one who must hear him.
God falls silent; he no longer hears bubbles
bursting into the air, sordid air,
that air, so strange, that was never air.
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