There is something dense, united, settled in the depths

Repeating its number, its identical sign

How it is noted that stones have touched time

In their refined matter there is an odor of age

Of water brought by the sea, from salt and sleep

I'm encircled by a single thing, a single movement:

A mineral weight, a honeyed light

Cling to the sound of the word "noche":

The tint of wheat, of ivory, of tears

Things of leather, of wood, of wool

Archaic, faded, uniform

Collect around me like walls

I work quietly, wheeling over myself

A crow over death, a crow in mourning

I mediate, isolated in the spread of seasons

Centric, encircled by a silent geometry:

A partial temperature drifts down from the sky

A distant empire of confused unities

Reunites encircling me