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The world turns on its abyss
and you remain immobile, fastened to a shadow,
tangled in the instinct of a perfidious knife;
meanwhile the echo, lost in the night,
putrefies with its ambiguous surface.
Your dead eyes, with their
empty candle
of dry foliage, grab in the dust
a mournful empire, and whip the magnetism
of everything that survives in the jungle.
Your directions were dissolved
among the eyeteeth of the imperial flour of the mud:
the kiss of the clay with its barefoot tongue;
the manifesto of the Quetzal, that shits in mid-flight
and salutes liberty singing,
was not present to call goodbye when you fell. |
