The Sheet

My hard formal dreams will be able to overlap you
My destiny with the gold tank will be your beautiful rock
Which for reins will hold tended to frenzy
My worms, the paragons of any poetry.

--Apollinaire

It was the autumn. It was the autumn and it was the season of the war. Do you remember the war? Me, less and less. But I remember the autumn. I still see the fogs on close beside the house, and, beyond, the quiet oaks in the twilight. The sheets had fallen since September. They browned and the spirit of my youth, and also the spirit of time.
Often I went to wood. I crossed the meadows and I lost myself for a long time below the branches, in the shades, among the sheets. Once, before entering wood, I remember that there was a black horse which fixed me by far. It was at the bottom of the small field. I imagined that it looked at me, whereas probably it slept. Why do I think maintaining of horse? I do not know. Perhaps for the same reason I think of turn these words I wrote at the same time.
I kept the sheet where I had noted all that had come to me to mind. At the time, I believed that they belonged to me, but now I know that I was wrong. With each time I read again them, I see that I copied only what somebody had told me.
--am not afraid. I will not stop. I must discover this clearing. And I will not stop as much as I would not have found it. Do you know what pushes me to seek it? Eh well... nobody. My wife died. My wife, my daughter and my son are all died. Do you remember how they died? Me, less and less. I remember only time. My wounds are not any more mortals, but I am afraid. I am afraid not to find this clearing.
I remained some time to look at the shades, the sheets and the branches. Then, when I left wood, I saw only the fog around me. I could see neither the house, nor the meadows, only the fog. And of course, the black horse had disappeared.

--[illegible]