THE SICK MAN
And the big, frozen mirrors in the hallways and
rooms begin to get inflamed by the breath that
reaches from some deep, unapproachable borders,
and all the ancient faces that remain motionless
on the mirrors, enlarge their lips, stir and their
eyelids shiver, swollen and livid faces that float,
faces of drowned people stir again, float, sink,
alive faces of swimmers or divers. And the mirrors
become straight, vertical, lakes or big windows
Then people, shrouded by darkness, blind, having
just the vision of darkness, rise or sink, you don’t
know,
up to those borders where the wind mixes with air,
light, and soil
and a huge line of fire lights the night. What was
that light and the shadow? Not a projector and not
a wall, nor procession, nor battle nor precaution,
not victory nor defeat, far away, far away, far away
things, inexistent, and inexistent knowledge
of inexistence.
How quietly it rains, on the stones, the cemetery grass,
the silent roads, on the rusted lampposts and busts;
an endless sound,
of water, a thirst without a mouth, thirst without
thirst.
Libros Libertad 