|
Brother, tramped crockery:
the immersed summit of your hidden birth
did not dream your flower decapitated
in the secret pottery of the aurora.
Let me raise up over my deaths
the sleeping crankshaft of your story:
funereal procession of muteness without repose;
obscure parliament of the rain
turned into merchandise of broken wings;
disguised slowness of the pagan quartz;
expropriation of the wet consortium of life.
Let me cry
with my mouth decayed by fatigue,
to arrive with my kisses of irrigated surface
up to the sunken culmination of your pure birth,
until I awaken in the cup of your shipwreck,
like an invasion of exiled flowers:
Oh! Imperial thunderbolt of the feathers of the water! |
