There is no clear light,
no clear shadow, in remembering.
And there are other memories, still looking for
something to bite,
like fierce, unsatisfied teeth.
They gnaw us to the last bone, devouring
the long silence of all that lies behind us.
And everything lies behind, nights, dawns,
days hanging like bridges between darknesses,
cities, doors into love and rancor,
as if war had broken into the store
and carried off everything there, piece by piece,
till through broken doors
the wind blows over empty shelves
and makes the eyes of oblivion dance.
Yesterday’s hours, stitched by life
threaded on a bloodstained needle,
between decisions endlessly unfulfilled
the infinite beat of the sea and of doubt,
the quiver of the sky and its jasmine.
It’s late, late, but I go on, from example to example,
without knowing what the moral is,
because, in my many lives, I am absent.
I’m here now, and i’m also the man I was,
both at the same time.