(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.