Where will the centuries be, where will the dream
of swords that the Tartars dreamed of,
where the strong walls they leveled,
where the Adam Tree and the other Log?
The present is alone. The memory
erects time. Succession and deception
It is the routine of the clock. Year
it is no less vain than vain history.
Between dawn and night there is an abyss
of agonies, of lights, of cares;
the face that is seen in the worn ones
mirrors of the night is not the same.
The fleeting today is tenuous and is eternal;
another Heaven do not wait, nor another Hell.
The instant
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