What remains of my childhood
are the astonishing hours,
half-empty glass from which I,
when I'm by myself, still drink.
I almost feel guilty when
I lose faith in my lack of faith
at the center of a dream
in the ruined garden of dreams.
Center with no words or charm,
stealing the sunflower's voice.
Yellow center amazed by
the center of all that is dark.
- translated by Greg Simon