spelling takes me in vain
the alphabet in the world.
Leo in a dark stone sob
echoes drowned in towers and buildings,
I investigate the earth by the touch
full of rivers, landscapes and colors,
but I always copied wrong.
bound, I need to write a stingray
about the book's horizon.
Draw the miracle of those days
floating light wrapped in
and release in songs of birds.
When men on the street wandering
of his anger to his fatigue, brooding,
reveal to me more than ever innocent.
When the gambler, the rogue, the adulteress,
the martyrs of gold or love
are just signs that I have not read it,
you still can not write in my notebook.
much like at least a moment
this flat feverish poetry
record in its transparency each letter:
the thief or the t of the saint,
the Gothic diphthong the body and desire,
with the same case in the sands of the sea,
the same cosmic piety
life unfolds before my eyes.
Eugenio Montejo (1938-2008)
