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Beneath the fingernail of
the lightning-bolt
immersed in the bell-tower's manifesto,
with its clusters of goblets,
trembling and fiery:
humanity,
fragile and navigable,
invader and invaded;
the limited cycle of life,
the emperor of incalculable space;
the temperate superior matter of the universe,
falls the way pistils fall,
closes his eyes
and then he goes.
There,
where the liturgy of the bells,
with their pendulous clitorises,
rolls in the air,
the primogenitor of the clay,
who did not require a potter of high art,
the man who gave identity to the firmament,
he, who is everything that could be
in the fragile height of life,
lives under the terror of other dawns,
like the stanched impotency
of a mutilated river,
or the inconclusive architecture
of a complex circuit. |
