Beneath the stone, inside the trunk
surrending to its silent pain,
here conceals the hearth's blood;
the winter mists touched
with their fairy fingers
the lost grass who involves
arcana mazes
where the bewildered day waits in vain
dreams and hopes rised it to free.
How the ripped world seems like
a lost ship in the storm!...
Slow remains, after the wreck,
approach the gloomy shore
of this broken continent.
Here, with doubtful hart,
the blinking day
gropes its roads in the sky;
and between plagues of bare docks
draws discordant auspices
from the unknown landscape.
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