I have dreamed of you so much that you are no longer real. 
Is there still time for me to reach your breathing body, to kiss your mouth and make 
your dear voice come alive again? 

I have dreamed of you so much that my arms, grown used to being crossed on my 
chest as I hugged your shadow, would perhaps not bend to the shape of your body. 
For faced with the real form of what has haunted me and governed me for so many 
days and years, I would surely become a shadow. 

O scales of feeling. 

I have dreamed of you so much that surely there is no more time for me to wake up. 
I sleep on my feet prey to all the forms of life and love, and you, the only one who 
counts for me today, I can no more touch your face and lips than touch the lips and 
face of some passerby. 

I have dreamed of you so much, have walked so much, talked so much, slept so much 
with your phantom, that perhaps the only thing left for me is to become a phantom 
among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadow than the shadow the 
moves and goes on moving, brightly, over the sundial of your life.