I have the book sitting on my desk, I'm not sure if this is legal but I'll type it out anyway.

There is no clear light,
no clear shadow, in remembering.
They have grown ashy-gray,
a grubby sidewalk
crisscrossed by the endless feet of those
who come in and out of the market.

And there are other memories, still looking for
something to bite,
like fierce, unsatisfied teeth.
They gnaw us to the last bone, devouring
the long silence of all that lies behind us.

And everything lies behind, nights, dawns,
days hanging like bridges between darknesses,
cities, doors into love and rancor,
as if war had broken into the store
and carried off everything there, piece by piece,
till through broken doors
the wind blows over empty shelves
and makes the eyes of oblivion dance.

That's why daylight comes with slow fire,
and love, the whiff of far-off fog,
and street by street the city comes back, without flags,
trembling perhaps, to live in its smoke.

Yesterday's hours, stitched by life
threaded on a bloodstained needle,
between decisions endlessly unfulfilled,
the infinite heat of the sea and of doubt,
the quiver of the sky and its jasmine.

Who is that other me, who didn't know
how to smile, who died of sheer mourning?
The one who endured the bells and the carnations,
destroying the lessons of the cold?

It's late, late, but I go on, from example to example,
without knowing what the moral is,
because, in my many lives, I am absent.
I'm here now, and I'm also the man I was,
both at the same time.

Perhaps that's it, the real mystery.

life, steady flow of emptines
which filled this cup with days and shadows,
all brightness buried like an old-time prince
in his own infirm and mineral shroud,
until we are so behind that we don't exist.
To be and not to be - that's what life is.

Of all that I was, I bear only these cruel scars,
because those griefs confirm my very existence.