The Museum

A clamor, in the distance. A crowd running under the rain beating

down, between the canvases the sea wind set clattering.

A man passes crying something. What is he saying? What he

knows! What he has seen! I make out his words. Ah, I almost

understand!

I took refuge in a museum. Outside the great wind mixed with

water reigns alone from now on, shaking the glass panes.

In each painting, I think, it’s as if  God were giving up on finishing

the world.