Nocturne
But these rivers that don’t run beneath the moon,
but these rivers, where do they go?
Immobility of the rivers in deep nights:
ecstasy of mobility.
Soul, you’re like these rivers:
you march immutably towards your fatal end;
a strange will turns you into a mirror,
but the mirror isn’t all clear.
La voz de los cuatro vientos (1931)
{ Fernando Paz Castillo, Poesía, Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1986 }
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