when the world smells like a paddock,
when the grove grows to a giant
above the sleeping garden-walks.
The pleasureless moon
spins like a useless coin.
This is the cold, silent hour,
made of death and forgetting.
Through every sleeping head passes
a weightless, fugitive world
which doesn’t cry out.
to have one spirit only
locked in one only life.
Carner, Josep. Poesia. Barcelona: Quaderns Crema, 1992.