TOWARD THE POEM

From the hubbub in which I wander, lost,
A rhythm disentangles itself for me,
And yielding wholly to this new allure,
I come upon the clarity of the terrace—

My guide here is the one who with clear strokes
Traces the coherence that lets me free
Myself from the goblin of disorder, so much
More melancholy than the threat of silence.

At the height of this obsessive reverie
The words, determined now to come to light,
Converge for me in a bright totality.

The sounds give me the sketch of flesh and bone.
The life-preserving boon that saves me is the form.
My pains, my sorrows, throw themselves into the flame.