Poem by Benhamin Prado

This world of hazy, dimmed mists is no more,
this world of trains that, as they depart,
leave behind a kind of shiver across the landscape.
This world of felled forests — that once was you.
Through your ancient sorrow a river has passed.
And you suddenly grew weary, like a fragile doe.
You had fled from a book of Rimbaud.
As always, you left within a fragment of rain,
a white statue asleep in the garden of a dream.
With the chill of a mirror foreseeing a crime,
you left as always — you, who said you would not go,
and perhaps you were sincere when you said you would not go.