Under these arcades, while the last of the night bathes the paving-slabs with moisture. Under these arcades where everything seems immobile, finished, dead. Under these arcades, only the staccato rhythm of my footsteps, whose noise is masked by the sound: sound that slides along the stones which exude silence, sound that emanates from the base of the columns and clambers up and up, beyond the archways, only to fall back in a thousand fragments on the marble of the paving and ricochet in its turn against the shutters of a thousand closed shops. A rain of notes which grows and grows with every step, till it takes over the surrounding space completely and inundates the whole of this Piazza with its deep and steady heartbeat.
... as I make my way home, leaving behind me a wave of sound which will draw back as soon as dawn has finished bathing these marble slabs, as soon as the PAUSE button is pressed, as soon as these arcades turn back to become, as ever and for ever, the old and time-worn Procuratie of the Piazza San Marco.