From the badly stuccoed walls of twilight

the oil, the kitchens of the poor houses,

the orphanage, the groomed village boys

of the stars,

life never stops coming like heavy rain

of flags and wheat.

Our glance, a fish with excellent memory

swims in the tight veins of the sky.

You love the marble, the clay, the old freedom

of the trees, all the elements and their combinations

all the geometry of the stars —

you love not to love

but to carry your love further.

You love life.

You love motion, a blind insect, an animal

from the other side of time that has lost you,

you love all the dirt path we’ve passed together.

You love man.

You love sadness, a spring that widens the contour

of lips, two gnarled, forgotten hands,

you know and love man

so that you will gather drop by drop

seed after seed

stone after stone

an act after an act

his true self

scattered amid the pollen and rivers

lost amid the furniture and movie theaters.

They run, they run with a few sobs in their embrace

to get satiated by the leftovers of the wind

to fool the cold with their rags of truth —

no I’ll never be able to see you again in every man

the fluid metal of his enclosed hands

a life overworked by life.

We must march on.