|
Each time
he closes his eyes
and, between two obscure lanterns,
remains imaginary,
distant:
he enters the riding party of smoke
like a horse of dried steam,
and he extends himself
with the resignation of a shipwreck
over the maw of a dream without end.
And there,
in the liturgy of the surround
where his obscurity culminates,
he inherits the sense of fatigue
in the abyss of the eye:
he remains soundless
and busy
among the quietude of metals
and the pallid memory
of the decayed marble.
He has gone far away,
deserted.
And in his journey
by the corners
of the restless garden plot,
he revolves
and covers himself with soft rain;
he says goodbye to whatever he created,
and without realizing
that he has left,
he enters the pastureland of the dead
on a journey without end. |
