Antiguos gritos

Ancient cries
Still floating between things,
Like algae of sound,
Catch in the aerial shores of my thought.
Then the centuries dissolve like crystals of oblivion and I am again the first man
Working his stitch through the foam
Groping for footing among the bitter shuttles that are weaving the mass of night.

Basta que un cabello toque el fondo
(Enough for one hair to touch bottom).