To Jules Supervielle
I opened the rooms
deep in the dream
and thin voices
carried on the wind
entered.
From the barque of heaven
of the ruled paper
fell the scale
where my body
went down
The sky on the ground
like in a mirror;
the restless street
bent my words.
I stole my shadow,
the closed shadow.
In the quiet of silence
I heard that my steps
had passed.
The cold of the steel
in my blind hand
armed with his dagger.
To give me death,
death was waiting
And when the corner was turned
in a long second
my steely hand
found my back
Without a drop of blood
Without noise or weight
my nailed feet
came to deliver my body
I took it by arms
I took it to my bed
I closed my wings
deep in the dream.