II
“…when their fear turns into desire”
DANTE, INFERNO, CANTO III, Verse 126
Groups of seagulls over the waves
gossip about the light
they comment about its failings
the worse of them all: night.
Something sweet, like syrup
is formed inside me
and it is the fear of the black hole
over which I hang
like a little fly.
I hear prodding:
Come, come to dance
your limpid dance
on the slippery surfaces of nostalgia
come, come to say
the last little words
about how the internal was poured out
and the external ravaged the insides
abolishing the hierarchy
of the dreams.
Ah, what an inclination for Paradise this is!
As if a godly blue man
waited under the tree
as if you planned for a long voyage
with your finger on the map
like a poem that pops out warm
a passing god would know
how among all the tears
the inspiration of death
rises unimpeded.
Libros Libertad 