Summation in Autumn by Julio Cortazar
In the vault of the
evening, every bird is a
point of memory.
It’s surprising how
the fervor of time comes back,
comes back without a
body, or for no
reason — that beauty, so brief
in its violent
love, saves one echo
for us in the falling of
night. So what is there
to do but stand still,
letting your arms go slack, your
heart in a heap, with
that taste of dust that
was a rose, or a path? Flight
surpasses the wing.
To know, not at all
humbly, that what is left
was gained in the dark
by means of silence;
that the branch in your hand and
the dark tears are your
inheritance, the
man with his history, the
lamp lighting the way.