It is a Saying



Disquieted in the lips’ rings and its feelings
The words wash themselves like swords
Noble defenders of the woman in fallen marble
The tragic deliriums explode in fever
Or in an obelisk of high deeds

The landscape swells in riches
But there are attenuating circumstances
For summer seated in mid-year
More real than last year’s women
He is the beautiful tunic of the monastery
At the hour of descending the stairs and the light
       that rolls around the streetlamps
Like an unfastened mane
For the marble and its sleeping siren within
For time and its wounds

Vicente Huidobro