What can be read on walls...

Perhaps, perhaps oblivion on earth,
like a mantle can develop growth and 
nourish life (maybe),
like dark humus in the forest.

Perhaps, perhaps man,
like a blacksmith,
seeks live coals,
the hammering of iron on iron,
without entering the coal's blind cities,
without closing his eyes,
not sounding the depths,
waters,
minerals,
catastrophes.
Perhaps, but my plate's another,
my food's distinct:
my eyes didn't come to bite oblivion:
my lips open over all time,
 and all time,
not just part of time has consumed my hands.

That's why I'll tell you these sorrows I'd like to put aside,
I'll oblige you to live among their burns again,
not to mark time as in a terminal, before departing,
or to beat the earth with our brows,
or to fill our hearts with salt water,
but to set forth knowing, to touch rectitude
with decisions infinitely charge with meanings,
that severity may be a condition of happiness,
that we may thus become invincible.