Later, on arriving at an inn, I loosened my horses. I found them long after at α rally while everyone mourned an uprising that never took place. Suddenly, there was a cloudburst, and we wrapped ourselves in the sheets of the central hospital swaying at the windows. A little beyond, we looked at the dreary buildings (later on they were forgotten as poorhouses). Then, they say, during the heavy fog at the time, the insane and those to be committed escaped. A little higher, hardly visible, was the phonograph, and the voice could be heard below in the stagnant waters. “I happened to be here in these places long before. I’m not a stranger.”

I was in the ramparts.
Fencing with the ancestors,
Fencing with the winds.



Early on
when my concert was first heard
in the world, it followed
the humble path of inglorious precursors,
shading places
during hours of rest.
Remaining silent in the evening lights,
it awaited the heaviest and most unbearable night,
where in the panic of the profoundest remembrance,
in the bleeding gallop of wonder,
in the accelerated agitation
and the distances’ anguished voices,
radiant, candle-lit, my concert will rise
and perform the symphony of terror,
at full volume in the heavens.



From the window I see the bust
the only figure down the road
out at night
winter is a ghastly grandeur

In previous generation gaps
it lived on the centuries’ responsibility

On the metal brow
I see a vision rising
the form of time and calamities
succeeding in being a diadem

As it still meditates on mansions
my gaze returned to the past





In this storm of beauty
breathing the chilly oxygen
I left behind to the years
a paradoxical head yearning

Overwhelmed by the tremor of anguished psalms
as the absence of heaven inundated the deep
blind and dark from the light’s direction
I cast my shadow

In the squares of my spacious life
the soul’s alliterations blew glory
they breathed rhythms of wounded writing
the vowels of depth




The body knit its weights
but pictures fell
the vertical structures of his face
the fascinating rendering of his ideas

A voice dragged his words
shifted the sounds
for the objects to change place
the clouds to cast their weight
swarms of wings
to flourish
on the newer earth
to germinate
in the bitterest sea




Without the sky
they’ll seize the horizon further on
they’ll set fire to it alive
and burn it
a day without the sky
they’ll cast half of the entire cloud
they’ll dig in the water
for the breaths to flow

They’ll find sleep sleeping on the paper
with its pictures
its silence
they’ll still be trying
for a name, the words



The fate of the body and its voice

Tall wings
raze the sea at night
splintered wings
tear up the waves
divide the tall waters
bring down the clouds
the earth at night

The watery body
drips its iridescence
till morning
it cries out to its breath
to turn up
it screams
for its voice to deepen
before being lost to remain
a touch on the rocks of time



Unknown measure

Agonized as always
the voice that never appeared
draws near
the audible meaning

In the pause, in absence
in a translucent void
its sound is roughed out
its presence comes dimly into sight
its design its synthesis
as if a picture sometimes the voice
as if a product



My mother in the old days

In the old days my mother travelled
in a rosy city with smoke
noise harbours and steam
balconies floodlit hotels
windows with open landscapes
in national parks, on avenues
fountains sculptures
warm animals dolphins and children
theatres and spectacles of the day
my mother smiled everywhere
and she knew no one



The colour of lilies

Sleep was fragrant
it bloomed
the moist cloud
spreading a sheet
of wet lilies on her neck

The cloud dripped
sleep leaned on her neck
the basket of lilies
bent and leaked
colour and the clear day
shone with a deep
deep-white colour




This evening I stood in a line at the theatre. There was a hum of people. I waited. Amongst them one was heard saying: “We come from places where what is being enacted actually occurs. Only in another order and with a completely unexpected result.” I came out of the queue, turned backwards and left. I moved away. I advanced and arrived where no one was expecting me. Iron domes were mirrored in the rivers. Buildings were weighed down, dark gardens with wild animals and statues, cries with new faces and flowers.




That winter morning, out of the old mansion with the tall columns, came three men wearing hats and black clothes. The carriage stopped down on the esplanade before starting off again. The bright animals proceeded through the rain. The road opened like an avenue, it went up and down in gardens of unknown neighbourhoods. And yet, each time they passed by the same road. The same course would bring them to the bridge over the big streaming river which they now crossed together. The animals advanced and it started raining hard. In the old remote confectionery with hundreds of hats framed on walls, so many people dressed in black waited and still conversed.