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In the night,
when the insect in its shack
incubates its dominion
and raises its bloody sword
like a spark of fire,
the peasant of strange origin,
who forgot the anonymous passage of the thunderbolt
to the detriment of his trade,
now raises up the exequies of a hoarse drum.
And man, who turned into a
vessel,
climbed the steps of the water
and navigated from drop to drop
by the ladder of the river;
long before the metals were drilled
by the twilight eye of life
they buried their metallic feelers
into the astonished aptitude of the discernment;
and the invention of the cardinal points,
and the bitter theory of the spoons,
reduced to a fractured pulpit
that strips its leaves in the prairie
the startled human intelligence.
Man,
turned into grief,
today acquires the hoarseness of a broken bell
and, at the same time the leaves
fall decapitated,
he sleeps without having answered
where liberty lies. |
