Independence
They had all brought their lives to this point, a sign of
their unexpressed joy, undoubtable dreamy sweetness
yet now, just before their end, they wished to let go of
their lives: didn’t want to bury it with their cadaver, so
they threw the four nails forged by the blacksmith and
the tree limb they used to make the cross they returned
to its source. They were the days of unblemished light
which fell upon wishes fresh and virginal, the crucifixion
was postponed, but don’t worry for people’s laughter
they just can’t cry anymore. They’ve been born,
they’ve reached their end, and they never learned either
purpose nor meaning.
I like those who stand over the gaping mouth
of the Abyss and in an exalted way cry out: I’m not
afraid.
