THE DREAM VOYAGE
To Augustin, ten years after passing
beyond
In the nutshell of the dream,
your words come back to me,
once reiterated, too well understood,
and still,
uncut,
in the never beginning shell
of memory, the merciless heart memory.
Now the sign late in its beatitude
Is shaking me,
“Stay immaculate, sin against yourselves, you
fruit stones and you, people,
‘All is passing by, all is going by,
Love stays into the body’.”
The rain is glassy and heavy in the city
with the biggest church in the world,
old and unfinished,
with the magnetic eyes of the other,
I see myself stepping into all sorts
of broken umbrellas, I avoid,
I avoid huge walls,
I pass through
immense shadows and covered labyrinths,

I get under the dome black with smoke
from which they say the Statue of Liberty
has just been taken,
so that the hole where
sounds of unbelievable purity bathe should remain
(vaguely do I realize it is modern music),
I linger in a side chapel
and I listen to my wet bones
I smile to a priestess who gives me,
in turn, the body and the blood of the Lord;
there is something old and intimate in the cup
from which we all drink (they are Anglicans),
like the marble slab where these other words of yours
shape a cross,
“Take, eat! My heart begins everywhere!”

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