Poetry, or what has existed for centuries under that name, attaches to earth, with faith, through the dust that everything is; like huge buildings, whose serious shadow augments their substructure, connects and blends with it. This call of the stone coalesces, as it ascends toward the sky, into interrupted columns and arches having an audacious spurt in prayer; but, finally, a certain immobility. I am waiting, as for a dazzling bat and a breeze of gravity, for him to escape, suddenly, with an autochtonous wing sweep, the insane, adamantine, angry, whirling genius, striking the ruin and flying away, the personification of flight, which he alone is.
(trans. Barbara Johnson)