Mark Strand, Fiction, Narrativa

I think of the innocent lives
of people in novels who know they'll die
but not that the novel will end. How different they are
from us. Here, the moon stares dumbly down,
trough scattered clouds, onto the sleeping town,
and the wind rounds up the fallen leaves,
and somebody- namely me- deep in his chair
riggles the pages left, knowing there's not
much time for  the man and woman in the rented room...

No, non c'è molto tempo per l' uomo e la donna nella camera ad ore.
Il tempo è scaduto,l' amore è finito; insieme al capitolo...