The bumblebee, which came Into the room from the sun Like a flying guitar Wakes up the sleeping melancholy… The trees standing with its fingers Dripped in the yellow And dispassionate sky Draped in deep blue Suspends me like a feather In a remorseful painting of still-life-
Out over there, Stands the season of Indian summer Bathing the objects in the pouring sunshine; Wind lies motionless And bird passes across Drawing a line as it were Between the two worlds of motion and stagnation Time flows into Infinity in the silence of man and melody The bird in the midair, balancing itself With its wings in a horizontal line To achieve motionlessness, Is a wall clock in the sky With its hands On three and nine
