when August is about to end,
I think about the leaves that incessantly fall
from calendars. I believe I am the tree
of the calendars.
Every passing day, leaves me wondering:
if the one who loses a father is an orphan,
if a man who loses his wife is widower,
what name do we give the loser?
How to call an idler of time?
And if I myself am time,
how shall I call myself, if I lose myself?
Day and night, not Monday or Tuesday,
or August or September. Day and night
are the measure of our duration.
To open and close our eyes is to last.
At this hour, every night, forever,
I am the one who has lost the day.
(Though I may feel that,
like fruit rises through peach branches,
the in the heart of these hours rises the dawn.)