Suddenly from all the green around you
something-you don't know what-has disappeared;
you feel it creeping closer to the window
in total silence.
From the nearby wood
you hear the urgent whistling of a plover
reminding you of someone's Saint Jerome:
so much solitude and passion come
from that one voice whose fierce request the downpour
The walls with their ancient portraits glide
away from us cautiously as though
they weren't supposed to hear what we are saying.
And reflected on the faded tapestries now:
the chill uncertain sunlight of those long
childhood hours when you were so afraid.
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