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