Remember the childhood of your mother, the childhood of
your death;
away from the world and all desire,
made immune by the lizard and the bird confronting each
other in all of blood’s intentions.
You have felt the mask and its forgery: the face
in greenhouses of small and useless ceremonies which
still move us.
Under the light of a moon that resembles the nakedness
of ancient words,
listen to this rhythm, this rolling of the waters,
night is moving its dark wheels, these words are its
meaning,
and I let myself be carried by what I want to say: what
I ignore
and this is how the word ponders its silence.
Oh casual night of the word,
oh fate where the word returns to its silence and silence
to the first word
the first snails, the first starfish appear once again
in language,
and creatures of for place their breath in new mirrors.
He who utters the first word shall drop the first glass,
he who strikes violently at his amazement shall see fire
in his hair,
he who laughs aloud shall be the first to remain silent,
he who wakes before his time shall surprise his bones
in semaphore with the trees;
and the sea, like a broken symptom, returns once more
to hear itself in the distance
and in its breathing we hear once more the sound of the
door
banging in the wind of infinity.
The moon is born over the sea like man’s ancient look.
The first lights
go on at port.
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