(Not of the republic is this the day of beginning.)

And if it is not yet spoken, this day, what it is
if I cannot speak about it, to you, my love,
to anyone, of the picture, time of here
and time to come, how long the beginning
the after of any season, how to count on it
I do not know. The poem inclines
to restless thought: the night relentless
the heavens unimaginably vast. I cannot speak
of else that troubles me but that this
appears, needs to be worded, to you, to someone
but to you above all, the sky in January
crowded with lights, we saw them, on our back
on a deck, and the sea nearby, flowing and going.

(Not of the republic is this the day of beginning.)

 

And if it is not yet spoken, this day, what it is
if I cannot speak about it, to you, my love,
to anyone, of the picture, time of here
and time to come, how long the beginning
the after of any season, how to count on it
I do not know. The poem inclines
to restless thought: the night relentless
the heavens unimaginably vast. I cannot speak
of else that troubles me but that this
appears, needs to be worded, to you, to someone
but to you above all, the sky in January
crowded with lights, we saw them, on our back
on a deck, and the sea nearby, flowing and going.