Gospel According to S.
Counting the triumphant denials
tearing the viscera with a lacent’s precision
bringing new hopes as future defeats
I walk in the universe.
What we were deprived of is what moves us
towards that side of the moon
with a local low level and raised lips.
O dark root of optimism
how much longer shall you grow in arid soil
ramifying infinity with the illusion of being?
A dead armchair is equal to millions of voices
and an extinct torch to thousands of raging photons
yet affection is two letters ahead
and the throne a rustle without the body.
O generation, spiny chicory of erebus
O generation, slain wild beast in the throat of God
O generation, perplexed and computerized
mirrored in stagnant waters fayum-like.
And where bombarding beehives, there “peace” trumpets forth
and where crystallized limbs, there outflow rivers
of “freedom”
and when on the table “injustice” is slaughtered
the innocent dine on crumbs of righteousness
and when they sound “mercy”
comes caisson disease.
You always dismiss your demon servant
as you affirmed during the war.
He who cries “my poor sides!”
will be quelled by the beauty of her bared parts.
And she who mourns for the constellation of Centaur
the splinters of his skin will be rundoing.
For who can stop a beast pouncing on its prey
and the victim’s desire to be marauded?
Blessed are the hungry and thirsty for love
and satiated they are.
And finally whoever is humiliated by the pace of a lizard
sunning itself
whoever is still moved by a dewdrop’s will
to hover on the leaf of its fate
whoever still wonders
“Who knows what experience has in store for us?”
he’ll emerge from the kingdom of heaven
worshipping not knowing what.
****
Granada
You wander over the three hills like a Creole woman
The thirst of your lips you quench in rivers
You have the look of a “Solemn Madonna”
Roses in your hands and silver from Granada.
They offer you a red stone. Mum’s the word.
Your silence is of the art of Alhambra
And that glass bead round your neck
Inevitably brands you wherever you go.
Strangers’ hill. Your way.
“What soil allays a stranger when he dies”
You think again as you regard the Fountain
With the Lions encircling the source.
Everywhere sound Tarrega’s “Memories”
Here, in the south, in woeful Andalusia
A couple of questions as one and only wealth
“Whence did you leave” and “whence are you returning”.
