Orestes
Listen to her — she hasn’t stopped yet, isn’t she tired?
Unbearable in this Hellenic night, so warm, serene, how
independent and indifferent of us, allowing us a certain
comfort — to be in it, to see it from within and at
the same time from afar; to see the night as naked as
the imperceptible calls of its crickets, as the imperceptible
shivers of its black skin.
How could we have remained independent with the calm
joy of indifference, religious tolerance, beyond everything,
in everything, inside us, alone, unified, unattached, without
comparisons, competitions, checking, without being measured
by the expectations and demands of others. Only to look at
the strap of your sandal, that separates your perfect big toe,
towards my space, towards a secret space, mine, next to
the oleanders while the silver leaves of the night fall on
your shoulder and the sound of the fountain passes
imperceptibly over our toenails.
Listen to her — her voice overpowers her like a deep
sounding dome as if she’s hanging off her voice, like
the tongue of a bell that strikes itself and strikes the bell
while it isn’t a day for a funeral nor a holiday, only
the unstained loneliness of the rocks and down there
the humble quietness of the plain underlining that
unjustified petulance around of which innumerable stars
stir like innocent childish kites with the endless rustle
of their long tails.
Libros Libertad 