I don't admire the moon
which I know in that Arabia
she is called Q M R
The moon plays on the youthful plane in vagueness which resorbs in foliage of trees fine rings and heavy dough of timelessness
A soldier immobilized by owl's song by the chilled crystal of toad The moon sings of pure grass of the sleep which he ignores
The rats dance in the towns The stations quiet and quiet are those who scream the night those who squeak in the silence
The memory stretches out into the past of others Hypocrite scholar you will no longer cry
scattered within yourself
