You’re not beginning . . .
It’s an eternity, you know . . .
I mean, the ever-after, you know
No matter, then.
Raise your cavalry
But don’t set out for the horizon,
Or the sea . . . or the soil
lines for beginnings,
finish me off on a wire.
You are not beginning now,
watch out . . .
anyone who begins is deceived
We haven’t yet finished the elegy for the century,
We haven’t explained blood,
flowing from poetry,
or a tear from prose,
and what of glories,
to see through them just ourselves,
and in ourselves, only us . . .
Do the dead epitomize the living?
Well, then . . . does captivity test the
wings a bird uses to
swoop down freely,
or does it discover significance far
from their twin meaning?
That’s a mirror,
and this a woman,
the woman rises . . .
So let the mirror be shattered, and the ruler,
and the secret between them
The woman rises . . .
to see the before and the after
from the inside and the outside
we’ ve obscured the sky,
and performed ablutions at dawn,
then prayed at its knee until noon
the sultans passed by without their dreams,
they were dragging coffins
we call thrones!
Do you really see? . . . we ask ourselves
and how is it they’ve triumphed?
Only defeats have been victorious
The beginning of wine is the shadow . . .
And it is not content with the volcano,
we’ve raked the languages of serenity,
to raise a glass
the naked trees . . . our remains
for he who gathers enough
of the silence that extinguishes an ember
we no longer grasp, we’ ve returned
and raked letters
whose eyes have forsaken sorrow,
for a glorious silence
they have stabbed its isolations . . .
the silence indicts armies
and judges and turncoats . . . and titles . . .
It does not forget . . . a summons from your master’s resolutions,
or from the binding of the threads that remind.
Oblivious to design, this tomorrow is baffled by intent
and the yesterday that moans
from our first humanity.
Rather, baffled by our first blood,
for this I search the night
for a new master
sowing wheat with his palms,
singing from our songs,
and quenching his thirst from our casks
and if fury remains, then an invasion is
A gift is my rib
And my spirit a brown horse
And memory my pavilion
For to whom do I leave my belongings?
And to whom do I entrust my desire
For a mirage that doesn’t betray its master
one day as the capitals
have betrayed their inhabitants
Has he finished . . . ?
No . . .
He does not know this deed,
and doesn’t accept its definitions,
it embarks within us
and if he arrives to shore,
he says: Apologize to it for me.
Around me is a vaster blueness
out of your dreams
was straying from it
and so, it strayed from him.
The poet has finished and as for the poetry . . .
We say no . . .
And we say: we’ll try.
March 7, 1992