Pierced by the mist that fades away,And off the white smoke swimsWith a hand freed from weight,marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroachedOne flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;—The place the road ends, that patch of white paintBy trees—or might see as the masonryAlberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,ReferencesThat patch of white at the very end of the roadSeized from creation by nonentity,Only a whiter absence to my mind,Bronze the sky, with noWith my foot the supple ball, for perhapsNo name, no meaning. Oh my friends,Yes. You'd want that said, (if youStars, the last day, endless and centerless,I might have happily lived some other childhood.I bring down a bit of its light