Wednesday, November 13, 2013



Maybe one morning,  walking in air
of dry glass, I'll turn and see the miracle occur--
nothingness at my shoulder, the void
behind me--with a drunkard's terror.

Then, as on a screen, the usual illusion:
hills houses trees will suddenly reassemble,
but too late, and I'll quietly go my way,
with my secret, among men who don't look back.

Photographer unknown
Poem by Eugenio Montale


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