The crypt

 

Crypt of the Pantheon, Paris, France.

 

It rends July,

it fatigues August.

Remain the days.

Miserable cycle,

miserable this crypt

with pendulum,

my    w  o   r    l    d.


       *       *        *

Weeping tree

 

Don't dry, weeping tree,

I keep standing.

Although they pull up us from root,

 

  despite our heart has been removed,

  we still have so much to continue warring.

 

* * *

 

EL ORDEN

 

¿A qué le llamamos logos?

¡Vislumbro!

Eso es la potencia

empujando esta pregunta

hasta mi mente.

Lo que está allí, en mí.

El orden.

¿Por qué no desaparece todo?

¡Vislumbro!

Basta si desaparezco yo solo.

 

 

*      *      *

ÙVULA

Descansa

en cortina traslúcida

que sobre el agua

veo su entera beldad.

Eres de otro mundo,

mi vírgen blanca.

 

La informidad de las cosas

es tan sólo

otra forma de las mismas.

 

Eternidad volcada,

parpadeante

en cada anochecer

que calcina la mirada.

Vienes y me tocas,

en esta noche exacta

de tristezas.

 

Varias estrellas

han surcando los sueños.

hasta llegar a mí

en este preciso segundo

que ya se ha apartado

del tiempo.

Cogito ergo sum

If I died, nothing would happen.

The radio would still be there, 

that yard with its sun
 

and the old bench.

My body sinking

in the tedious matter.


I am a thinking thing.

I think, therefore I am,

only one insipid object

perceiving his own presence.


Disappear is not an importan event

anymore for the things,

why should it be for me?
 
              *             *                *

The sparkle

We arise in this world
like a sparkle in the dark,
simulating the birth of the stars
in the vast immensity we arise.

We must melt in ourselves
in each flash crossing the silence
in each grain of matter hovering in time
accumulated in the luminous skin, the sun.

To know that one only 
is the man with life
and understand that life 
only being one among men.

The one dissolves in the other
and everything dissolves in one
like the nothingness with the stars.

               *       *         *

One morning

I put a coffee bean in the tip of my tongue

to dissolve it with patience.

There are images crawled,

bits of uneasy memory.

I go to my garden. I take off my shoes.

I walk on the grass and with the little salt

who brings the sea wind purify my wounds.

A stroke of honey coming from the bushes.

Insects celebrate their precarious presence

under the summer sun while I practice

sonambulisms of reality as restarting

e  v  e  r  y  t  h  i  n  g

as returning to the past.


         *        *        *

Annuler les modifications

Alpha