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The cabala and life’s mysteries

There was no music in his soul; only an empty herbarium of
metaphors and artful cleverness,
of the worship of sophistries and disdain
for the human and what lies beyond the human.
J. L. Borges

I always enjoyed
walking down that street to the sea, the sweet river,
worn out by love
or wounded in the groin
by gentle rain or a downpour
and that man, bent
over a book, was trying to decipher
heaven’s codex.

But in the field
tall reeds grew
lovers stirred at dawn
secretly drenched
by the dew and the resurrection
while a faun on fire
ran behind
two boys
and the old women
of the next millennium
were singing of happiness
after love
displaying sheets
on the clotheslines
of the world.
And that man
was trying to reveal
the mystery of the centuries,
with a leg
on each side of the torrent
with one foot on each bank
of the moving river
the river of fire, water
and sky,
empty of kisses
eyelids and the warm
legs of women
falling headlong into the pit
filling it one by one
with bones.

But in the field opposite
other men went up
to a boat of iron
and never returned.

Hospitals were populated
with gangrene
wombs grew
in loneliness
and cities multiplied
in the ancient
extensions of dust.

While that man
who sniffed out
the roots of darkness
in the changing breeze
of the last sunset.

In this same place
where messenger doves
now nest.

barra azul

© 2009 Jorge Palma - -