“Nocturne in which nothing is heard”

 

by

 

Xavier Villaurrutia

 

(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.

 

 

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