I have almost stopped singing.
Words don’t come to me.
My fingers are cold,
colder than stone.
I wonder what will become of me.
I stand waiting
and go with the wind.
My clothes do not warm me.
Arches and porticos offer no shelter.
What direction to follow?
I envy the potter,
his strong hands,
the wetness of his clay,
the curve of his joy.
Or the painter with his windows,
his infinite colors,
the palette of his eyes,
mixing and stirring.
Or the philosopher
with his text,
his boundless logic,
his structures of order.
I exist in shadow,
the nuance of phrase,
a terrible longing.
But the world does not cease.
It invites me,
whatever my mood,
like a friend,
who will listen
even to silence.