Sleeping under a big pile of rocks,
I am bound together in their ideas;
thus the centripetal assortments of ruins.
The scattering still advancing,
reduced to dreams of rubbish;
the resisting power of an inexpressible enthusiasm;
the curiosities of air, the fictitious light;
sometimes, for instance, these form a ladder.
How many landlocked ships to reach the edge of the world?

The unruffled system of sight:
The floor was standing before them, in vain,
the future land was on every side.
It was many miles away from us in every direction.
A position is not a line, not at all, when breathing has no wish.
A sound out of that lengthened space, it may be,
sun-splashed miles under our feet;
the rocks will be brought in before the echoes.

The bulk of mountains, where there was none defined,
as important as that it was not a part of the long rotted rows,
a runway terminating in a white ash copse
where it could meet all the sky.