THE FICKLENESS OF THE TOTEM
The red word slips among Persian petals,
The pumpkins where drawings have been cut
Slip into the prehistory of African languages,
Only the countless pomegranate seeds,
Intricately wandering in me, resign namelessly
Into the young labyrinth of death
And graciously forget their target.
The now petrified sandal stick
Protects the bible of the leaves.
And look, I can distinguish the orchids’ light siesta
From the carnation’s bland sleep,
From the banana tree’s agitated sleep,
From all the random reveries of the herbs,
And I can recognize for sure the unique azalea
Shaking its pink lace
When listening to the hollowing longings from Puccini’s music.
Libros Libertad 