Days, weeks[ldots] The starry...

Days, weeks[ldots]
The starry sky: sand-glass,
a hand turning it, my time growing les
I smear mire on my face: pass by means of me
if we should befitting in the movies, on a hilltop, in a public way
I've waited in vain:
I'm not who I used to be,
the single who saw the birth of tree
the dead swimming in vital current
and imagined that any day he'd be left to himself, alone
with the world, as with his endure mirror.
That day not ever came, nor that silence,
sole the wind: love overturning the basket
of my chest;
no other than the gangs of dusk