On the scrawled wall
that shades the random seats
the arc of the sky appears
complete.
Who any more recalls the fire that glowed
impetuous
in the world's veins—in chill repose
the opaque shapes are scattered.
Tomorrow I shall see the wharfs again—
and the wall—and the accustomed way.
In the future that opens, mornings
anchor like boats in the bay.
Eugenio Montale.
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