O ages...

where is my net?...

From threads of illusions

I braided it...

O ages...

where is my pail?...

From the mirage of my soul

I molded it...

O ages...

where am I?...

Of the pains of glory,

a fullness...

and from the horizons of the heights,

a quenching...

O ages...

where are you?...

From the depths of the phantoms,

peals of laughter...

and from beyond the dusk,

curtains of black...

Then twist... twist, O ages,

and pull out... pull out from my breast —

the ribs —

the pegs of your tents...

Rattle the bones of my fingers,

pebbles in your palms...

And stand still one blue instant

while I bid farewell to my bloodied heart...

For in the prayer-niche

its glitter is breaking,

and the incense is a bending...

in flight...

and absence is dew,

in shame...

and the melody...

a going... and a coming...

O ages... where is my net?...

Where is my pail?...

Where am I?...

Where are you?...

Stop... stop an instant,

for within my being

is a melody...

not yet ended...