_ _ _
Where does autumn descend to?
What does it look for under things?
Why does it drag all the colors down
as if must spoil whatever sinks?
And where do we descend to
like small portable autumns?
Where do we go down to even though autumn ends?
What disordered light
hollows out our foundations or erases them?
Or does life lack foundations
and only light swims in the emptiness?
Autumn pull us
towards a depth that doesn't exist.
All the while
we go on looking toward a height
that exist even less.
― Roberto Juarroz
tr. by Mary Crow