![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAst5q6aUAW9Yyq9jyER7j0L5EVcYXSPMR2XGjvALl704koXYBpmEyHPwujEcsTXxE0wACvTfa8Nn_lBkpupNHI53ZC8CELyzoHLcpibJ_PlvUNFvRUNawTaj5wLn1Z2yofp2rd7k9gJA/s400/06_06_2007_0895034001181104979_beksinski_zdzislaw.jpg)
Between going and staying the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.
.
All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can't be touched.
.
Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.
.
Time throbbing in my temples repeats,
the same unchanging syllable of blood.
.
The light turns the indifferent wall
into a ghostly theater of reflections.
.
I find myself in the middle of an eye
watching in its blank stare.
.
The moment scatters. Motionless.
I stay and go: I am a pause.
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