Orestes
And she insists to mix honey and water for the dead
who don’t feel thirsty anymore nor hungry, nor do they
have a mouth; dead who don’t dream of restitutions or
revenge. She always evokes her unmistaken (which one?)
perhaps to avoid the responsibility of her decision and
choice, when the teeth of the dead, naked, scattered on
the soil, become the white seeds in an immense, black
plain that will sprout the only true, invisible, snow white
trees that will phosphorensce in the moonlight to the end
of times.
Ah, how she can deal with such words out of her mouth,
words taken out of, yes, old chests (like those decorated
with big nails), words pulled up from amid mother’s
old hats, which she doesn’t wear anymore. You saw her
in the garden this afternoon? — how nice she still is —
she hasn’t aged at all, perhaps because she looks after
time and acts accordingly — I mean she renews herself
knowing the youth she loses and perhaps this way she reacquires it.
Libros Libertad 