In the original Eden
a feather remained suspended in the air
surely there is something ‒ the sparse birds.
In this suite of passages wherein
the beloved face tends to fade away
I laughed at the god who unbraided
his hair among the firs: by her silvery
pate I recognized the goddess a flower
that told me her name she lifted up
the veils one by one flapping the arms
on the alley on the platforms of marble
I chased them away running like
the beggars then they entered into me
like steam then I felt their snow-clad
body on the throat for an instant ‒, I was
intimate with them, which will not
supervene in a religion in reckless
solitude, I could hear the words of
the woman whom I love. Her face
put a mask on suddenly, at dawn ‒
the soul is ill.
You all the men and you all the women
you days of Moirai it’s you whom we
should pass over in silence ‒ nowhere
nothing remains of our passage ‒ my
steps passed through the garden
into the mysterious shadow, but the roses
raised their leaf where I walked sad
meditating as in front of a great loss
life seems to have flown to the sky.
Never should you have been born
a slumber without beginning
in the bed of a flake of light
at an origin whereat nor does
the thought get, an endless
shipwreck if you had pulled
out of this everlasting slumber:
nostalgia for this previous state
is the premonition of the consciousness
without you desiring her
there was your voluptuousness
that the being lacerated.
I’m horrified at all that reveals oneself
I’m horrified at every gesture.
Out of the dawn that bathes you
I pull the wine of my day
a laugh of crystal underneath the shirt.
Essential dynasty
the perforation of
the ray’s cells
the penetration
of the hearth
sentenced to curse ‒
to me they are all one
within the real Self:
the centuries, time, night
stay intransigent in the Word.
I come before the whisper of the angels
with soft wings on the lip of the splash
against the stone ‒ love lies with irises
at her feet and dragonflies on her thin
ankles she’s enormous and robust but
oscillating flapping in the wind, but
the chained rumour of one million leaves
dashing against my windowpane fragrances
of black green sounds, they are clear
impassioned calls.
My depth, my mountain
my death clasping me in her arms
she goes up the imploring stairs
up the towers, flashes of lightning.
But the flame didn’t fall from this
the Vestals exhausted themselves
on the altars but these games came
to an end so they should have a rest
and then nothing but The Great Return
remains ‒ there exists a chalice
with a gentle mass that remains
in the bad weather until she solidifies
and shines like a splinter of star
that contemplates you with fixed
eyes since you were born and
the Time comes with a gift of tears,
the silence of the morning.
But without your intervention
life’s revolving monad
wouldn’t have rebelled.
The slumber on Thy resplendent
countenance like the saintliness
giving us the Word and all the things
that sleep under the waters of the souls
calling us like the clocks striking long
he utters us stringing us in syllables,
the last element like the tip of the iceberg
putting a full stop at our life gathering
all the things, hurling a reproach at us
the last countenance, “What I do you
don’t comprehend now…” And you
run again after the foreigner who loses
his traces in silence: tonight all that
you believed that gave you power
will be demanded back from you
and the shout will enshroud you
in the slumber from under the seawater.
The ransomed blood blossoms forth
among the stones like a verse sung
next to the poor cradle listening to
the teaching, a book like a white island
whose pages you tear out and you leave
them on the wind of the sea carrying
the silence of your mystery beginning
a new life on the eyelids in ruins:
you see there the eye that navigates
full of your stories: you country is
an odalisque subjected to multiple
rapes because she had mercy on herself
murmuring the same always postponed
odalisques words in the blaze
of the ransomed blood next to the things
dear only to the nomads with voice
of insect.
With another wine, another world
another glass that I raised to the god
not only once so I should find
the severe Christ so I should find
those cleared places where the fearful,
bloody humiliations romp about
in the dark woods, the quagmire
whereto the solitary and hurt tyrannies
come noiselessly under the lonely star
in the hours with light step of the darkness
when the world and the sky revolve
and the highest life reveals herself
in contemplation.
IF A PLATE OF THE BALANCE
If a plate of the balance remains in You
and the other one hangs leaning in me
will you place a golden grain in my shouts
in Thy wound on me so that she should
pull me up out of the mass grave? Lord,
I break myself into drops of words and
I fall through the meshes of the net lying
crosswise and drops of blood stain
the kerchief waving above the door,
but how heavy does she hang, the sadness,
this dust of the soul running after
the water mixed with the sun hallucinating
on the horizon towards the dead eye
of the dusk’s light always for something
else that I everlastingly wanted?
Exhausted from the bleeding, I wait
for the touch of the ray that should
suddenly change the decor and
the shadows of the past should
creep furtively into the limitlessness
of waters of oblivion: what unfolds
now on the threshold of embalming
of the tangible universe as if there were
a single wedding for the first time
in the world leaves for us under
the melodious smile a gnashing
of rusty keys that fades away beyond
the rain where all was void; and if
the golden rain begins to live under
the immaculate threshold watched over
by the pure veronica, by the injured
tiredness in her consists the fact that
the hour has come for you to sink your
face into her gentle softness: the day
grew in the clear voices of some children
who stand in the trees as on the plates
of a balance always in unstable equilibrium.
