Some bread and some grapes are left on the table.
The two empty chairs are facing each other.
Who knows what the moon’s wake illuminates,
with its sweet glow, in the distant forests?
It could happen, even at dawn, that a cold gust
blows moon and mist away, and someone appears.
A weak light reveals his throat rippling
and his feverish hands grasping in vain
for the food. The water continues to ripple,
in darkness now. Neither the bread nor the grapes
have moved. The smells torment this famished shade,
unable even to lick the dew already condensed
on the cluster of grapes. All things are distilled
by the dawn; the chairs face one another, alone.