to swallow its substance.
This is how Creation renewed itself.
For me, all was yesterday, but I’m alive,
and sometimes I believe,
and the moment suckles me
I’m not one who knows.
I’m the one who no longer believes,
not in man,
not in woman,
not in a single story house,
not in a pancake with honey.
I’m no more than a word
flying out of my forehead
taking pity on itself and maybe nesting
somewhere high above this sad spring.
As for Being,
don’t ask me again,
I no longer know.
And I knew simply that I was no longer
what I was not,
I don’t know how,
and that everything was part of my nothingness.
And I was,
I don’t know when,
chasing between the numinous and the mire,
inside it all,
I, born, scrawny, already fully armed,
and with every step I took
chasing it. the word,
any word,
one from a burrow
or the one that leaps.
If my life isn’t this
what could life be?
A puzzle?
May time, besides its own, give me Time,
and I will remake my eternity,
which is no longer mine
because I discarded it.
It was mine for one moment too long.
Have you heard of the abandoned ports
of lunacy and departure,
of the cetacean with its drenched costume
that does not swim. and founders?
Have you known so much about the city
that rather than a city
it seems like a dismembered corpse,
myriad and infinitesimal?
You know nothing.
You know only to ask.
You know only wisdom.
But wisdom is not to be with no thought
of anything at alclass="underline"
but rather to keep on,
on foot, into now.
TRANSLATED BY RICK LONDON AND KATHERINE SILVER