Yes, I know. You, Célere Lector, do not want but
kind poems that take you out a little of the inexperience
existential life that you are going through: then you would like: “… when
I was combing my daughter's hair…”, you were pulling her hair!
you were pulling that poor scalp and yelling and cursing!
But you want, you urge, that the poem lie to you.
and there we find the tacit Poetic Contract between you and the poet:
the poet lies to you, you believe him, and both sleep happily.
No. The poem. No. The poem does not have to come
to paint the lips of the dead.
The dead do not need cosmetics or guarantees.
the dead man who rents out memory annihilates it.
the word has a turban inside, put on that turban.
the word has a god within: kneel before that god!
because otherwise Leviathan engulfs you.
love the stones of the days that you made, oh, pedrilina.
and he loves stone. Because everything will return to stone.
Have you ever noticed that the heart is shaped like a stone?
Have you ever noticed that twilight isn't real?
but you, Reckless Reader, want poems that begin:
"... and today I look at your eyes and you have grown so much...". Oh they laugh
The statues in the Park are laughing their heads off. What are stone
stone. Nothing but stone.