“Nocturne in which nothing is heard”
by
(translated by Mark Andrew Holmes)
In the middle of a silence, deserted like the street before a crime,
not even breathing so that nothing
disturbs my death,
in this solitude without walls
where the angles have fled
in the tomb of the bed, I leave my bloodless statue
to go out at such a slow time
in an interminable descent
without arms to extend
without fingers to reach the scale that falls from an
invisible piano
with only one look and one voice
who do not remember coming from eyes and lips
What are lips? What are looks that are lips?
And my voice is not mine anymore
Into the water that does not get wet
Inside the glass air
Inside the livid fire that cuts like the scream
And in the heartbreaking game of one mirror in
front of another
my voice drops
and my mature voice
and my voice burning
and my mature forest
and my voice burning hard
like glass ice
like the cry of ice
here in the snail of the ear
the throbbing of a sea in which I know nothing
in which I know nothing
because I have left feet and arms on the shore
I feel the network of my nerves falling out of
me
but everything runs away like the fish that
notices
up to one hundred in the pulse of my temples
changes telegraphy to which no one answers
because sleep and death have nothing more to
say.