Color of ancient garments. A July in shadow
and an August newly mowed. And one
hand of water that grafted rotten fruit
onto the resinous pine of tedium.
Now you´ve dropped anchor, dark garment,
sprayed with a gorgeous fragrance, you change
into time, abbreviation…And I´ve already sung
the feast of evil inclinations that sank.
But can´t you prevail, Lord, against death,
against the limit, against that which ends?
Ay! The wound the color of ancient garments
how it opens halfway and smells of burnt honey!
O sublime unity! O that which is one for all!
Love against space and against time!
Sole beat of the heart;
sole rhythm: God!
And as the limits shrug their shoulders
in harsh irreducible scorn,
there´s a shower of serpents
upon the virgin plenitude of I.
A furrow, a shadow!