The September night was trembling

The September night was trembling.

I carried in my clothes the sadness of the train that carried me across the provinces one by one:

I was that distant being sickened by the carbon fumes of the locomotive.

I didn't exist, yet.

I had something to discover.

My poetry isolated me and joined me to everyone.

That night I would have declared Spring.

A sad beggar,

I was made to untie the vestment of the naked night.

I trembled reading my song before two thousand uneven ears.

The night burned with all the dark fire that multiplied in the city, in the urgent need of contact.

Did the loneliness die that night?

Or was I born then, of my solitude?