Like a light that makes the olives misty

and it silver-plates and distances them

on the back of time,

when the glance goes beyond the path

and it only finds space

like an empty memory,

that’s how our past life is for us.

 

The life, another illusion,

a wheel of absences, a sun of names,

numbers and words dispersed in death.

She is the one that shapes the shadows with her song,

the bodies with her shadow, the glance with her light,

with her oblivion the frightful dream of the mind.

We call that life and it is only a charm

that empties and launches us to the mirror of time.

 

And time is a fire of rain and distances,

of nameless places, of forgotten numbers,

of voiceless memories, of some strange ash

of an inexistant fire, burned in our breath,

escaped in our blood towards an absent god

that we call ‘ourselves’ submerged in our sap,

that sprouts in a dreamed about present that never was,

separately imagined like a sea that escapes

with the ships of the wind.

 

And the wind is love: today just one single word,

a mute neckless that is man’s solitude,

the glimpse of a sincere love that was presence,

the crystal of a thirsty man that shows passion,

a fragrance of nothing, beauty in a fragile body,

a landscape carved at the back of memory. Are you being vain?

Vain is only the passing of hours,

not the anxiety of time, a man’s soul.

 

And the illusion ends in suffering. Desolated

bodies. Destroyed dreams, shore of death,

heart-broke at the sun. And one unique

moment: of foolishness, of nameless sadness.

This is what they call being and is without doubt a fantasy

of remaining, of reliving, of reborning, although

it’s outside between the shadows silver-plated by the light,

like the olives at the bottom, hallucinating by forgetfulness,

but not dead.