En el blanco infinito. ;que pura y larga herida dejo su fantasia ! --- In the infinity of white what a clean, long gash his fantasy left !

The fleeting track made by
    the vanished foot in the soft
    grass, the echo that hollowly rolls,
    the shadow that grows blacker,
    the whiteness a ship leaves in its
    wake---

So too the soul,
    no greater or better,
    quits souls;

What passed leaves what's passing.
Memory forgets.
    Once dead, we keep dying.
My friend,
    we exist for ourselves...