It’s late. Roads don’t tempt me now.
And from the closed-in garden I can tell
the days and leaves and flowers
are fallen, trampled in the mist.
My steps turn furtive
like a hesitant foreigner’s.
sigh in a tearful dark.
Far away, a bell sound floats,
joining the living to the dead.
Invincible, the night spreads out,
a sea of desert islands.
The lamp on the table summons me,
so does a fleeting thought,
and the old worn chair,
and, malcontent, a sheet of paper.
CARNER, Josep. Obres completes. Barcelona: Selecta,