ORESTES
Let’s walk away; I can’t listen to her anymore. Her
wailings strike on my nerves and dreams like the oars
hit those floating slaughtered men — who were
lighted by the torches of the ships, the August
shooting stars, and they all shone sometimes young
and erotic, unbelievably immortal, in a watery death
that freshened their backs, their ankles, and legs.
How silently the seasons change; it darkens immensely.
A rattan chair remains empty, forgotten under the trees,
in the light dampness and the steam the soil emits.
It isn’t sadness, not even expectation. It’s nothing.
A motionless motion spreads over yesterday and
tomorrow; the turtle looks like a rock amid the shrubs;
it moves slowly — a quiet contingency, secret conspiring,
happiness.
A tiny mark of emptiness remains in your smile —
perhaps because of what I’m saying to you or what
I’m about to say which I still don’t know, I haven’t
found it yet in the way discussion walks ahead
of my thought — a way ahead — it reveals rhythm
and myself to me. As when we were at the gymnasium
and the runners came back sweaty and I noticed one
who had a string tied around his ankle, for no reason,
by chance, and this was what it was. Nothing else.
Sacrifices, they said, heroism — and for what change?
Years after years; perhaps we have come for this
little discovery of the great miracle that isn’t called
small or great, nor murder or sin.
Libros Libertad 