You wait for those who have retreated? They withdrew deeply. They were abandoned by walls, pencils, clocks, painting, souls, rain and snow, retribution and sand, immortaliy and the needles of the pines. We don't know which of them is right, and when you write down the sum of separations you lose your aimless singleness and split apart into opposing voices. There remains a circle scartched by a knife, a mark on the glass and dust on the selves so much falsehood, so much freedom and so many lines and so little of the unmistaken destiny. Two voices remain. They will touch the hot and unpleasant content of this town. They were given a drop of memory. You have it and no one has it. And it knocks about winged and blind, like a swallow unwanted by its nest, and then what is your classicism worth, your happy and noteworthy school? That's how an hour, torn from us and condemned, falls like a scraf on the rooms, corridors, and stairs, and on the gap that still remains between time past and come.