out of the mountain of his soul comes
a keen pure silence)such hands can
build a(who are like ocean patient)dream’s
eternity(you feel behind this man
earth’s first sunrise)and his voice
is green like growing(is miraculous like
tomorrow)all around the self of this
being are growing stones(neither awake
are goddesses nor sleeping)since he’s young
with mysteries(each truly his more than
some eighty years through which that memory strolls)
and every ours for the mere worshipping
(as calmly as if aristide maillols
occurred with any ticking of a clock