RIMA LXXV

Can it be true that, when sleep touches
our eyes with its rosy fingers,
our spirit escapes from its prison
            in a hurried flight?

Can it be true that, on gentle breaths
of nocturnal breezes, it rises into
empty space, a guest of the mists,
            to meet with others?

And there, denuded of its human form,
there, with its earthly bonds broken,
it lives for a short time in the solitary
            world of the idea?

And laughs and cries, and hates and loves
and leaves behind a trace of pain and joy,
similar to the trail left by a meteor
            when it crosses the sky?

I am not sure if this world of visions
exists outside, or if it lives within us;
but I know that I know many people
            whom I have never known!