Long-listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards
And the maids kept weaving
weaving the slow blanket
like loom workers of the lost
time that for eons try
to join the cut-off thread
to couple thirst with patience,
compassion with punishment,
debt with payment
night without any fear and
time with the timeless, to match
action with dream, root with
tree top, the eternal with
the endless beginning. Yet
as the loom is ready here
it suddenly breaks over there
everything tumbles and goes;
actions, thoughts, planets and
years vanish in the silence
of immenseness. And only
our unquenched desire remains
eternal, our humane thirst and
this infinitesimal moment.
All else is soil and silence.
Yet, the tireless maids
always motionless in motion
calm, unapproachable, alone
with their deep indifference
deeper than their motherly
tenderness, with their small,
poor hands weave the endless life.
And their breasts were wilted.
Libros Libertad 