sexta-feira, agosto 04, 2006


Observações Inglesas

A gander broken on a fence.

A field of Humans tall
tilting in the wind

I have seen their backs
hauling away the stones
I have seen their hands
dirty with Earth
and I have seen their eyes, my dear
and they will not let go
and I must not forget

A trail of ants over the land of my body.

Wounded eyes.

I will dig the Earth here
gather the stones
raise my ruins
and then I will wait
for the howl in the wind
for the stomping in the plains
for the barbarians at the gates
for the invasion of Poland

A velvet hand abandoned by the road.

Tectonic plagues.

To the Maker of ruins, the One of the Fictive Music, the One that Never Arrives, the left hand of emptiness.

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