I see you!
Rosy gates,
rotund blazons waving like cyclones,
mundane vapours pouring en masse into the earth.
I arrive upon the infinite donkey that descends the cliffs.
Inscribed on the horizon, I bring the bearing of your eyelids,
the lucid lodging of the oils of your smile.
Here I shall seek you.
I rest beneath the sun
and as I gaze at the star with my mouth open,
I feel on the edges of my flanks the chafing of ash,
badly built arpeggios of subterranean heatwaves.
What are these gestures?
I open my eyes and I am in the middle of the bridge;
below, running hurried and dispossessed,
a strange water crowds against the edges of the bay.
What is happening here?
Why does the mountain stream cloud over in these valleys?
Could it be that the bathing of many adds up to filth?
Then there must be more peoples than waters —
but is not the ocean endlessly circumnavigable?
So at least the cartographers of the market say.
The city lies in the midst of the people.
There, neither shout nor breath shapes me
as mist shapes the ghost.
What then can the fog of my word be,
if not concept?
I must rise up to see what I am here feeling.
Portentous nakedness, shot through with foundations
and daubed with rows of electric fruits.
Under this light, the grapes and the north winds wither.
All things flee beneath mountains of cloaks.
Chimeric nakedness, sweats awaiting rain,
eternal yearning of martyrs without cause.
All is silenced amid the din.
Song of the Absent One, pp. 19-20