Irrespective of the camera’s glittering prism
The fusion of this flickering scene’s completed,
And all the young “geniuses” who staged it
Are now old and somewhat stodgy,
And I am in my armchair, and rocking.
Though these passions have maintained their glossiness
The album’s pages have become adherent;
So much that is in between them is indiscernible,
That the bulk of memory’s vouch-safings are unusable.
It’s those early scenes, whose hold is tenuous,
That draw me from my reverie’s disinvolvement:
Calculus of the imagination, collage of feeling,
From an ambiguous form, to a faultless final screening.
One may quite peacefully smile at these reconstructions of pleasure.