Your steps translating all vanishing into act:
what lines they traced!
All is distance, and nowhere does the circle close.
See the plate on the gaily laid table:
this fish, his strange expression...
fish is mute...
who knows the fish language?
Orpheus . . . but he comes and goes...
O Orpheus sings! True singing is a different breath.
Spring will come again. The earth
is like a child who knows poems by heart.
Now say to the silent loam: I flow.