Lost, lost in gray hallways.
At night the lightbulbs hiss like signals of sinking ships.
We read books forgotten by their authors.
There is no truth, wise men repeat.
Summer evenings: festivals of swifts,
peonies erupting in the suburbs.
Streets seem abbreviated
by the heat, the ease of seeing.
Autumn creeps up surreptitiously.
Still sometimes we surface for a moment,
and the setting sun sometimes gleams
and a short-lived certainty appears,
nearly faith.
– Adam Zagajewski, trans. Clare Cavanagh
![Ishy ; (This is wusupp'] [: by ishthefish](http://25.media.tumblr.com/avatar_bd7b757a66b6_24.png "Ishy ; (This is wusupp'] [: by ishthefish"){kind=avatar}
