Gothic Bitterness
For Andreas Embirikos
The spring waters of Epirus with its brave men are
enough. The sperm collectors with their books are
enough. The devious penetrations of underwater gongs
into the atmospheric layers of forgetfulness are enough.
They are enough. Now, our souls need serenity. Now
our souls yearn for joy. Even if we need, momentarily,
one more time, for one future moment or yesterday’s
to write the ex-vitro pregnancy of fear onto the logs
of immortality, even if it is necessary to abandon the
quarries inside the diving suits, to place birds into
geometric shapes on top of the embrasures or to place
the lookout of aura onto the aphrodisiacal nakedness
of the forest. Even if the sacrifice demanded of us was
so painful as the tears flowing from her sad eyes or
the tragic braids of her hair. Even if our move to the
faraway Ecbatana hides many current and future
horrible results. Here are, the humble slander, the
venerable fig eater who just flowered on the warring
candelabras. Chalcedon was silent, indeed. Her song
is repeated now by the waters in an ashy rhythm. Is
this flag yours? Is this blood yours? Are these swords
yours? Does the chaos of a dream suit infinity? Where is
this defence taking us when even the osier hates us?
Libros Libertad 