As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.

You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms.

No foreign sky protected me, no stranger's wing shielded my face. I stand as witness to the common lot survivor of that time, that place.

You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

The word dropped like a stone on my still living breast. Confess: I was prepared, am somehow ready for the test.

There is a sacred, secret line in loving which attraction and even passion cannot cross.

A land not mine, still forever memorable, the waters of its ocean chill and fresh. Sand on the bottom whiter than chalk, and the air drunk, like wine, late sun lays bare the rosy limbs of the pinetrees. Sunset in the ethereal waves: I cannot tell if the day is ending, or the world, or if the secret of secrets is inside me again.