III
In the rough loneliness of salinity,
amid the muscly movement of the oceans
habituated only by silence,
life was getting itself ready
like colors get ready in a beam of light.
Life in the viscera of the granite and atmosphere
life in the wounded undergarments of sleep
life in the ash, under the snow
and Death,
there in the middle, erect, manly,
with his unshaven Byzantine face,
a pause that re-connects motion
a very well-made boot that exhausts
the limits of warmth
the garment that wraps the frozen shadow of the moon
the table that life prepares for its supper
the metal at the leaf’s edge at the edge of the forest.
The wave whooshes in springs and springs,
amid wild beasts, in gatherings and
in hugging, in graves and graves, in casseroles.
One wave cries, another searches, undresses you;
the wave undresses, digs up bones of petrified light,
inverts death, widens life, wounds it,
empowers it — but what it looks for?
Where’s the wave headed? Where’re we headed?
Where’re we headed?
We march on.
And, oh sky, you saw the world enlarging amid
the endless recycling of life and death
you saw man growing taller
you, that saw all the tortured
all the hunted
don’t forget:
Victory stands
beyond the moans.
And this little life of ours
can’t accept death.
Libros Libertad 