Like ash or nearing the fabrication of mirrors
or alcoholic drinks,
like extinguishing fire with water stained by dead leaves,
like a precise attempt to trap the unviolated
regions of oblivion,
vacate your body and arrive at the emptiness
in which the vastness blurs and drowns.
You must clamor for the empty,
and forget the purity of the sphere,
but remember that fullness is a property of the distinct forms
of imagining hollowness.
(I imagine them sad,
remnants, or rather, that which burned in the night and burns still,
but indeterminate and lazy.
I imagine them thus,
almost ethereal, spectral,
with skeletized faces and hands that hold nothing,
Then the crystalline makes its noise,
or merely humming its pain like a tiny sweet bird
and its manner of warning that is
like contorting the fingers
or to intimate that it’s afraid
and the crystalline blares and hides out
and becomes self-absorbed silence,
(capacity of the entrailed and the glassified to withhold love,
to give cold).
Light in clarity,
light that astonishes and gives shade to the shadow
of errant bodies,
gone bodies as if swallowed by time,
assimilated by time,
like a total emptiness replete with emptinesses,
a fullness of emptinesses undigested by coarse offal,
with a magenta choler or atrocious bellow
that dusts off the walls with its fear,
profoundly null to be groped,
absorbed by a shadowy light that will not stop illuminating them.
be bonfires and fabricate the alcohol necessary to withstand
survivance without their song,
without the torments that unfold as you burn
your generous forms and that escape on arduous steeds
or slow diving bells that are burned in black dresses,
scarlet guardians that squeeze shadows and deny
any attempt to save the soul.
but don’t confiscate the dream of the madman that searches for you
and loses more of the little insanity that accompanies him
in his final moments.
Sustain him in spite of the doors’ demolition
or on the biggest scaffold rented in the circus
for the juggling games and let him come down on his own,
without his bones
or bricks that, perhaps, would want to detain him.
There is nothing except disjointed frameworks or canticles
of anguish that nobody hears
nor rehydrates their bottles
with the maximum punishment of getting drunk with the dryness
that was left of water when the dust got lost
in the dilemmas that death poses,
the end riddle for the spectre that is-not
but still doesn’t comprehend it,
or doesn’t want to accept it and continues in its useless battle,
its endless tussle against him and his minions
forgers of tricks that drag him,
like ash or a doctrinaire chamber replete with mirages
or alcohols that originate nightmares that are there
but only after everything ends
and Everything begins to circulate anew.