To gaze at a river made of time and water br And remember Time is another river. br To know we stray like a river br and our faces vanish like water. br br To feel that waking is another dream br that dreams of not dreaming and that the death br we fear in our bones is the death br that every night we call a dream. br br To see in every day and year a symbol br of all the days of man and his years, br and convert the outrage of the years br into a music, a sound, and a symbol. br br To see in death a dream, in the sunset br a golden sadness--such is poetry, br humble and immortal, poetry, br returning, like dawn and the sunset. br br Sometimes at evening there's a face br that sees us from the deeps of a mirror. br Art must be that sort of mirror, br disclosing to each of us his face. br br They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders, br wept with love on seeing Ithaca, br humble and green. Art is that Ithaca, br a green eternity, not wonders. br br Art is endless like a river flowing, br passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same br inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same br and yet another, like the river flowing.