A boy asks me questions
about the war
and I answer
drawing with the index
among the ashes of a ruin
the figure of the sun
on the figure of a flower
about the figure of the heart
later
while I water with my eyes
the figure of the flower
I explain how you should
bloom the heart
so that it grows in it
a big garden
of love towards the light.
The branches of the belly influence
between indifference, mockery
and outright hostility. give birth,
silence difficult days and laziness
Naked women and dead men sway
between fear and reproach. They warn with finished truth
that reaches the cheeks
a way to die in salt flats
or in high tide of tears. It would seem that they were going to talk; burying
the war replaced more heroes in red destiny
no regrets
no baptism
girls scream and men cry
what is enough for us to be lucky enough to be entitled
to that benevolence? despite
that the version of the world in hollowness and words
have succession in time
turned into black bone cavities
and fire
and later
the branches of the belly are prophecy
for the exodus of souls:
let's make verses of the scream and cry
made in our likeness and image
(projection and introjection: man only counts the time of pain
but we come from midnight
showing that the war is ending
that the night has captured like a desert girl
the perennial and gentle cry of our eyes)
and still speaking loudly that he will never be treated as a father
other voices will declaim for the good of the people, an exalted belly
« like listening
screaming and crying
when my mother is born
in a small and sad poetry »
It has been emptied into the arduous celestial hollow
and although no omnipotent father, scrutinized
in guts of sovereign power
he has gone to see and recognize him, there
the golden vein of the untamed foliage
stands up
on the immense southern solitude
and the disinherited childhood leaves, a gas
noxious scorches the atmosphere breathlessly
other births will come to burst
on the edge of a serious planet
the one who screams, cries and bleeds
the crouching wind underlies
displays bizarreness in a hallucinatory way
in the old reberic and unforgivable day
in the story of nothing with frenzy
in the fresh alkaloid grass
(don't talk about that
doesn't mean it's not true)
the being that fills the soul
transgress the next plane, putting a what brother
in the piece of heaven without nationality