We have risen and the cloisters are empty,
We have risen and the cloisters are empty,
since we endure, an order that neither saves nor teaches.
Action is not the pilot's concern. They have their eyes
fixed on defense posts, and spread out on their knees
a map of the world to which nothing can be added.
Who is living down below? Who is crying . . .
Who has lost his housekey?
Who cannot find his bed, who is sleeping
on doorsteps? Who, when morning comes,
dares to interpret the silver trail: look, above me . . .
When water starts turning the mill wheel again,
who dares to remember the night?
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