.
Time:
you're dressed in the skin rotting the last prophet
you spent the face to the extreme pallor
you wearing a crown made of broken mirrors, wet rags, and chanting
now babbling of the future with the unearthed ancient melodies,
vague shadows while your hungry heap, like kings mad.
nothing I do not care all your ravings of unfinished ghost, miserable
host.
can gnaw the bones of the great promises in their rickety catafalques
or taste the bitter potion oozing beheadings.
And still will not be enough, until you devour
your court Goya finish grinding.
rhythmic never crossed our path in these labyrinths.
not even the beginning,
when you drove me by the hand through the Haunted Forest
and forced me to run out of breath after that tower
unattainable or find always the same with her dark almond flavor of fear and innocence.
Ah, your blue plumage shining through the branches!
embalsamarte not got I could not draw your heart like a golden apple. Too
pressing
the whip went after the driver imperial
incites been enrolled between the legs of his horses. Paying Too
,
condemned me to be the hostage ignored, the victim
buried to the shoulders from centuries of sand.
We sometimes fought hand to hand.
We played like beasts every bit of love,
every agreement signed with the ink in one instant forges eternity
each face sculpted on the fickleness of the sailing clouds,
every house built in the stream does not return.
succeeded in taking one by one those shredded pieces of my temples.
not empty the bag.
not display your trophies.
not retell your shameful deeds of gladiator in the galleries excessive echo. Neither do I
granted a truce.
I broke your laws. Forcé
your locks and went to the barn they call the future. I
one fire with all your ages.
I turned upside down like a curse that has broken, or mix your premises
as an anagram whose lyrics barter order and change the meaning. You
condensed to the point of a stationary bubble,
opaque, glassy cielos.Estiré prisoner in my dry skin leagues memory
until gradually the pierced holes of oblivion pale. One throw of the dice
made you hesitate on the immense gap between two times.
We have come far in the game awful, cornered the soul.
I know that there will be no break, and not
tempt me not with me invade the peaceful shade of ancient plants,
worth me nothing but be on guard, but ultimately
're standing around, getting your wages, petty bribery
the coin in your honor the hoarse machinery of death, mercenary. And do not write
then white borders "never again" with your hand
ignorant
like you're some god of God, a former guardian, the master of yourself in another you that broke the darkness.
Maybe you're just cheating the shadow of one of their dogs.
.
.
No. 19 of Mutations of reality (1979)
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