I go through the snow. I closed
My eyes, but the light can still get through
My porous eyelids, and I perceive
That in my words it’s still the snow
That swirls, thickens, bursts.
A letter that we find and unfold,
And the ink on it has faded and in the marks
The clumsiness of the wit is visible
Which can only muddle up its sharp shadows.
And we try to read, we don’t understand
Who is interested in us in memory,
Except that it’s summer again; and we see
Under the flakes the leaves, and the heat
Rise from the missing sun like a mist.
Yves Bonnefoy (24 June 1923 – 1 July 2016)