To what gods have we offered
our earthly time?
mountains rivers valleys
blue seas like mirrors
violet skies filled with stars
paths made of bright flowers
beautiful faunas of mathematical shapes
silverfish whistling among corals,
we have resigned all that
by the devil's material: asphalt.
The poet brothers of futurism,
the so-called civil poets,
the poets of the new Metropolitan poetry,
they have sung to the car on the phone
to the power lines that line the streets
Like wild vines in this concrete jungle, they raised sonnets
to the Empire State Building, to the nights
bustling luminous lights of the Buenos Aires Walpurgis, filed the teeth of the
Nature against the suburban language of
absolute absence of metaphysics.
Today, already fornicated by the digital sex of
21st century, I ask:
how we were able to exchange the precious clay of
the ages for the filthy gold of the
businessmen? The fresh and pleasant little house of
mud and stone through the overcrowded asylum of
bourgeois cities?
How we change the cultivation of the land
for the raspberry the pear the radish
peaches with glyphosate from Coto or Carrefour?
How we came to fall in love with the foot
dressed in ridiculous pointe shoes
despising perfect architecture
and divine of the naked human foot?
Seen from space, cities seem
the inhabitants of this Wonderful Land
and we, moving between streets and aedicules, look like germs
piled up in time.
We must return to Hölderling and Thoreau,
to the taste of water and natural matter with
that our ancestors knew
feed and heal and be on this Earth
a happy animal,
because otherwise
life and death and love and every variation of
the articulated human anatomy,
It will not only be vain but suicidal.