Nocturne: Nothing Is Heard


Xavier Villaurrutia

In the middle of a silence deserted as a street before a crime

not even breathing so that nothing will disturb my dying

in this loneliness with no walls

at this hour when angles are escaping

I leave my bloodless statue in the tomb of my bed

and go off in the slow-moving moment

in the interminable descent

with no arms to stretch out

with no fingers to reach the scale falling from an invisible piano

with nothing more than a glance and a voice

that canít remember having left their eyes and lips

what are lips? What are glances that are lips?

and my voice is no longer my voice

within this unwetting water

within this plate glass air

within this purple fire that slashes like a scream

In the miserable game of mirror to mirror

my voice is falling

and my voice incinerates

and my voice in sin narrates

and my voice in sin elates

and my poison scintillates

like plate glass ice

like the screams of ice

here in the shell of my ear

the pounding of a sea where I get nothing

wet nothing

for Iíve left my arms and feet on shore

and I feel the net of my nerves being cast outside me

and everything escapes like a calculating fish

counting to a hundred in the pulse in my temples

a dead telegraph no one is answering

for sleep and death have nothing more to say.


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