The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Weary Rings 

    There are desires to return, to love, to not disappear, 
and there are desires to die, fought by two 
opposing waters that have never isthmused.
 
     There are desires for a great kiss that would shroud Life,
one that ends in the Africa of a fiery agony, 
a suicide! 

     There are desires to. . .have no desires, Lord; 
I point my deicidal finger at you: 
there are desires to not have had a heart. 

     Spring returns, returns and will depart. And God, 
bent in time, repeats himself, and passes, passes 
with the spinal column of the Universe on his back. 

     When my temples beat their lugubrious drum, 
when the dream engraved on a dagger aches me, 
there are desires to be left standing in this verse!
--Cesar Valejo
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