…like movements of the imagination and the hands of people
who grope and kill themselves in sleep
in the unbroken rind of sleep that wraps us
common to all of us, our common grave
with microscopic crystals gleaming broken by the movement
of reptiles.
And yet everything was white because the great sleep
is white and the great death
calm serene exclusive in the infinite silence.
And the cackling of the guinea hen at daybreak and the rooster
that crowed falling in a deep well
and the fire on the mountain slope raising palms of
sulphur and autumn leaves
and the ship with the forked shoulder blades more tender
than the coupling of our first love,
they were things isolated even more than the poem
that you left unfinished when you fell heavily along
with its last word
not knowing anything anymore among the white eyeballs
of the blind and the bed sheets…
Libros Libertad 