It is late. On the tower the astronomer persists
in sounding the sky that exiles every noise.
He looks for golden islands: driven in the darkness
the glance looks for the shiver of unlimited dawns.
The worlds run away, like seeds under the riddle,
and agglomerate shines the dense nebula;
but he, fixed in the unbridled run of his star
orders it: "Come back in one thousand years".
And the star will obey. Not of a step or a while
it will be able to defraud the eternal science.
The men will pass, the mankind wait for it.
With a changing but sure eye it guards.
If on the return of the star it will be extinguished
alone, on the tower, the Truth will be awake.