We have lived like civilized people. O ruins, traditions!
And we have seen the barbarians, breakers of sculpture and glass.
And now we talk of ‘the inner life’, and I ask myself, where is it?
Not here, in these streets and houses, so I think it must be found
in indolence, pure indolence, an ocean of darkness,
in silence, an arm of the moon, a hand that enters slowly.
* * * I am reminded of a story Camus tells, of a man in prison camp.
He had carved a piano keyboard with a nail on a piece of wood.
And sat there playing the piano. This music was made entirely of silence.