Strophe II
Millennia pass like clouds in the sky
feverish game played by innocence
and the poet laments observing
repeated calamity as misery evolves
almost at the speed of light. Misery
evolves like a well-tramped path
outside the fragrant chant of the rose
almost at the speed of a bullet
almost at the speed of a curse
as the mind still creates dread in bags
and deadly silence in hoarfrost rooms.
Yesterday’s ideas revisited. Primeval images
with fangs and talons, hover
over waves commanding trails
of blood to be poured out
as the ancient dogmas pass on
from father to son, like phony images
stitched on the skin of the aspen.
Libros Libertad 