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.