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I love the organized composure
of the wind;
its curly fingernails of climbing vines reaches out to me
and brings some odours of fire in the afternoon.
I am rolling down under the
tree of silicon,
among the doubts of the milky quartz
and the laudable arrogance of the opal;
I murmur in the streets the lines of Emily Dickinson,
and, without snowing how I get anywhere,
I return, lost from the depths of the waterlilies
having become a bird with a rare song.
I play with the aeolic will
of my dark infancy,
dance in my bloody foul-mouthed territories,
and in the streets that I rarefy with volatile foam
I sculpt fantastic theories
that I insult with one smile.
There is no silence farther
than the silence;
a sad memory that understands what to keep silent
wriggles and dies without knowing why. |
