The moments,
side by side,
aligned like targets, are shot,
by chance or not,
for some seven thousand years now
– the investigation is ongoing –,
by a relentless hunter
whom many have called Chronos.

The instants did not leap straight into the heavens
– said to be nine –,
but transformed into wings,
some scattered,
caught in various currents;
in the end,
the boldest ones,
worthy of renown,
reached the workshop of my life.

I had hired a blacksmith,
who wielded a fiery craft
of processing and fixing onto the page.
Charming were those that flared up,
compelled by the proportion of the spark
to embrace the most demanding spheres.
These inscribe their course with longing.