Across the heavens' gray. Its consciousness of my white consciousness,Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo, Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesceI seek, above all, in the wandering Not daring to opposeIs the moon to grow It's snowing, it's returning to a townWill sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce Point, after all, when finally one reachesThis perfection, this absence. And piled up at the base of the columnsThe surge of swirling wind defines Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arcStars, the last day, endless and centerless, In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,More beautiful than anything in this world. The ordinary, wide scene which beginsTo watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
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