|
Incognito, the clock, with
its monotony,
passes by banging its itinerary
in a parade that is heading towards forgetfulness;
and it seems like your hands that labour,
like your feet restricted to a pinprick,
like your eyes that do not have the right to dream.
I insist in staying.
And meanwhile the stone with
its granulometry
and its tenacious monopoly of hard memory,
soundlessly consolidates its musculature
in the coarse exercise of the concrete;
you scream and you startle the world:
you interrupt the mystery of the palaces
and there, frightened, they close their eyes
and expectorate upon whatever you could be.
For your confession with the
lament
there is a postulate in target shooting:
the unpopulated stomach of the spoons
can corrode the thick bars of the universe
and standardize the gold and the crystal of the lamps.
And like a pendulum that licks
the breeze,
for you there is what was:
a great silence
and that is all. |
