«No fundo o mundo foi feito para acabar num belo livro.» - Stéphane Mallarmé

Then shall I awake to the primitive fervour, Straight and alone, 'neath antique floods of light, Lilies and one of you all through my ingenuousness.

I wait, but do not know for what or why Or perhaps you are uttering the last bruised sighs, Ignorant of the mystery and of your cries, Of a childhood feeling its frozen gems Being broken off at last amidst its dreams.

The poet Mallarmé listened to the painter Degas complaining about his inability to write poems even though “he was full of ideas.” “My dear Degas,” Mallarmé responded, “poems are not made out of ideas. They’re made out of words.