In the years when we were

all children, this inclining

to be alone so much was gentle;

others’ time passed fighting,

and one had one’s faction,

one’s near, one’s far-off place,

a path, an animal, a picture.

And I still imagined, that life

would always keep providing

for one to dwell on things within,

Am I within myself not in what’s greatest?

Shall what’s mine no longer soothe

and understand me as a child?

Suddenly I’m as if cast out,

and this solitude surrounds me

as something vast and unbounded,

when my feeling, standing on the hills

of my breasts, cries out for wings

or for an end.