Ode




Who comes in the afternoon strumming his lute over
   the clouds, as if in his home!
Who strums, returning leaves to their trees!
I’ve filled my heart with the shadows of my words;
with the dreams of voices.
And they sound in me, without solace, uncovetous:  you, no one,
   tomorrow, space, solitude, tenderness, air, emptiness, wave,
and never.  I entertain myself with them, the anguish
   of the sky and the hardened solitude
of blood.
I wash my mouth with their absences and I call myself by day
    and night,
and I place them over my head, discovered, to assign
   them to forgetting, before and beneath the zenith
of the plains.
Their gods and bodies I’ve settled between my lips
   forever, praising them;
before me they withstand the air, oh, and the impenetrable
   height of death;
no one sees them as they don’t see the breath that makes them mute
   and governs them strictly.
(The angels walk through scattered space; some carry
   stalks of wheat, others choose red poppies,
and the rest bring seeds for birds amongst
    naked trees.

No one sees them; the light parches my throat they
   scatter their ancient clothing.
I watch them carrying their heads, unhurt by air, and
disappearing rapidly, bathed in clarity, before
   the fury of the night.

By now I’m accustomed to see them, inside me, as
   in those days whose smoke has dissipated
and whose kingdoms stretched out beneath ash
await white lilies without despair.)

I wish I could draw the happiness from myself; to open my eyes,
   immensely, that hurt me,
and to watch, to watch the horizon from behind the void
   of nostalgia, where my shadow,
like a tree, changes leaves in winter.

Love -- time lost!



Ricardo E. Molinari