Would you carve a name on the water? Or over the hard stone? Or in the book of names of the missing? Is it with fire, ink, chisel, or knife? Oh this willow, your tears flow from the top of your eyelids to your feet, and the thirsty earth drinks them, and your wailing is prolonged in the hands of the wind fortune teller, as if you were the organ of his sorrows.
Your imagination falls from the saddle of horse, you even made a sailor in yourself. You drown in it and a train, until he departs from you and a hunter until he catches you with his first shot, and I have erected great edifices for your remains: pyramids, sarcophagi, mute ziggurats, and graves that the living worms wish to inhabit, having fun with your bones for days, and the creepers of the earth.
The lower reaches lived for more days, and passed, so who eats whom? I am amazed and see you preoccupying yourself with images or statues, making your nose more beautiful, your eyes and the curve of your neck on your shoulders.
So why are you resurrected when you are only a king, a thief, or a madman? You are nothing but "Nero" and if you are a Christian, why were you not crucified? And if you were a messenger, why didn't you leave your land or be killed or conquered? And if you are one of the poets, who among them will remain? And in which languages of the earth are the mortals addressed? And if you are one of the lovers, then your love is sealed with death, and your heart is dedicated to the dragon.
Look, do you see anything other than clouds that travel behind mirages that travel behind clouds behind mirages until the last days of creation? Are your lines only lines in the water, lines in the wind, lines in the sand, and lines in clay tablets? Perfect your line over the water and let the wind prove your feet in its whirl and on the sand; Set up your castles like ants and live in them.
You will see that the eraser will write your great biography in the mud. Why do you venture under a sky that does not see? Or on soil that does not hear? O this sleepy one whose eyes are open but he does not see.
Do you dream or do you jump like a grasshopper in salt water? Is nothing but a crowded void flickering around you and butterflies rising in the depths of history, to be burned by the sun of creation? Oh the beauty of the formation ashes! How beautiful nothingness accumulates at the bottom, as silvery sludge accumulates in an abandoned well!
Stare at the origin of the picture, stare at yourself, do you see something in it? A child playing or a man full of strength striving in the land who loves a woman whom he marries and has children and orchards? Do you really see children and orchards?
You are now alone and staring into the abyss of your sorrows. You draw elaborate lines and circles over the water and call them days. And you sleep, so sleep. Dreams guard you and sleep. Dreams confined you, but be careful, sleeping on the edge of a vision is like sleeping on the edge of a knife.
This torment that beats its wings as if it were both a bird and a night. This is the wind that blows embers. And these stars crashing above us are like suicide drones. And this knife whose edge is the limit of the world itself. All of this, all together. Nothing can be separated from something in it, and it cannot be explained. And every attempt to explain it will end up detonating it.
Your imagination falls from the saddle of horse, you even made a sailor in yourself. You drown in it and a train, until he departs from you and a hunter until he catches you with his first shot, and I have erected great edifices for your remains: pyramids, sarcophagi, mute ziggurats, and graves that the living worms wish to inhabit, having fun with your bones for days, and the creepers of the earth.
The lower reaches lived for more days, and passed, so who eats whom? I am amazed and see you preoccupying yourself with images or statues, making your nose more beautiful, your eyes and the curve of your neck on your shoulders.
So why are you resurrected when you are only a king, a thief, or a madman? You are nothing but "Nero" and if you are a Christian, why were you not crucified? And if you were a messenger, why didn't you leave your land or be killed or conquered? And if you are one of the poets, who among them will remain? And in which languages of the earth are the mortals addressed? And if you are one of the lovers, then your love is sealed with death, and your heart is dedicated to the dragon.
Look, do you see anything other than clouds that travel behind mirages that travel behind clouds behind mirages until the last days of creation? Are your lines only lines in the water, lines in the wind, lines in the sand, and lines in clay tablets? Perfect your line over the water and let the wind prove your feet in its whirl and on the sand; Set up your castles like ants and live in them.
You will see that the eraser will write your great biography in the mud. Why do you venture under a sky that does not see? Or on soil that does not hear? O this sleepy one whose eyes are open but he does not see.
Do you dream or do you jump like a grasshopper in salt water? Is nothing but a crowded void flickering around you and butterflies rising in the depths of history, to be burned by the sun of creation? Oh the beauty of the formation ashes! How beautiful nothingness accumulates at the bottom, as silvery sludge accumulates in an abandoned well!
Stare at the origin of the picture, stare at yourself, do you see something in it? A child playing or a man full of strength striving in the land who loves a woman whom he marries and has children and orchards? Do you really see children and orchards?
You are now alone and staring into the abyss of your sorrows. You draw elaborate lines and circles over the water and call them days. And you sleep, so sleep. Dreams guard you and sleep. Dreams confined you, but be careful, sleeping on the edge of a vision is like sleeping on the edge of a knife.
This torment that beats its wings as if it were both a bird and a night. This is the wind that blows embers. And these stars crashing above us are like suicide drones. And this knife whose edge is the limit of the world itself. All of this, all together. Nothing can be separated from something in it, and it cannot be explained. And every attempt to explain it will end up detonating it.