No more than a bird aloft alone am I, wings spread over the wide river where the boats pass slowly full of laughing people in the soft shade of the awnings, and a mountaineer, half-naked and nostalgic, wearily conducts his raft towards the cities that comb the open water between piers forgetful of how there once were green hills of trees and sheep and a happy steeple.
Life passes, and the eye never tires of taking clear images into the heart.
He who dives into his heart like a greedy miner, or who from sorrow shuts himself up in there like a fish, has more than I who, estranged from myself, high above the others, watches the ceaseless wave as it grows and diminishes in the sea. To ignore it, I, who, for a few minutes, relive within me forever your elemental luck, must give it up to you and pay for it by thinking and feeling like a fool, a fool who won't look back. I only know that I watch the river from along the riverbank and see myself always at the point where the water makes a pure beginning to lose itself.