Under the gray sky—but nothing is permanent,
surrounded or protected by bare larches
the plaza comes into reality.
Barely a trickle of water leaks out
of the mosscovered fountain and on
the other end an iron arch composes
a vaguely sculptural gesture the missing stand
of something we'll never see again. It doesn't
require rain or the mind's feminine
shadows. The plaza recomposes itself as you walk away,
its stillness a traveler's blessing. Here,
on the moor there are still lines, loose
sketches of its clearly dying state.
Translation from Laura Healy