Et ustus fortiter.
Goliard Songs
I live far from the great museums. I overlay the din of Tegucigalpa with Guernica. It’s practically impossible to copy a Fragonard, his verdure an undeserved hope. Here, the green rusts out like Neruda’s autograph. Only the traffic light takes aim at me. It’s the sight of an all-knowing sniper.
I live far from the Luxembourg Gardens; the more distant the train landscapes the more the lead hits my pupil. In the Carmina Burana it was an omen: to live removed from the Buddhist temples, from the hallways where a co-conspiring Heraclitus cries. I won’t die near the graveyard by the sea, near the whiteness that begins again in the waves. A watercolor trembles above the Tisa, but fifteen hundred leagues away. So remote Monet’s ponds, Rimbaud’s vowels, the kaleidoscope of the great libraries. I’m twenty-six years from Klimt’s yellows and in the opposite direction to beauty. I live far from symphonic orchestras, tulip-covered fields, the blue of imperial porcelain, every single windmill.
My colors are different. With them I must uphold my life.