The cold comes knocking at the door of the wake      I’d like to go in, but every attempt I make is shrouded in doubt, the doubts I gave up      to describe those lasting fears since the pale pleasure of seeing red cheeks      that pronounce short words on the long lines of an unfeeling river      a passenger who doesn’t look up or down or look at all      it’s the waves, perhaps, that delight in sliding over one another playing hide and seek      either you dare to bend over the water to slake your thirst      or the sweat on your back will be all the water your boiled body has      the door I knocked on shudders and falls over my thoughts, rekindled of late,      in the granite-like body of an inexplicable particle that pulsates in the sidereal depths      and silently generates a light invisible to the naked eye and gives rise to life      it accelerates and devours the dark measure      the light has no equals      it doesn’t breathe the air or burn in pain or get reduced to ashes      the unexpected expansion doesn’t burn fiercely, no licking of impatient flames      no memory of death or of life either      the particle pierces through the granite-like, thinking body and feeds its head      quickened by intuition it tends to the steady silence of the river flowing away into its underground lair      the meteorite keeps watch      fired up, the poet sings by night on the red-hot granite rock      helpless creature      nothing of events      and suffers the steely knife-like thrusts of the wind that shimmers in the moonlight in the silence and bends time to treat it to the sight      incredulous, nothingness splits its head open on the rock, to point the way to the road to ruin, while ruin, incredulous, disembowels itself to let life out, and a newborn life clambers up to swallow sprouts      its coloring takes hold and then comes a virile roar      it inseminates the underground springs      that silently turn into a dark,unruffled lake      happy to wander aimlessly through the flowering valleys, despite myself I yearn to sleep and dream of the depths of the lake that never saw dawn break on its still surface, while in the eyelid’s trembling, the ghastly impulse to slash time’s throat in an instant      In the mass of squirming bodies the battle rages on, and bones ripped out of the flesh are rods to crack the hapless skulls of the dying      The storm rages on and loses none of its strength      Pale death finds no home, and nothing is left of it all, until the morning after the rainstorm      On the morning after the rainstorm, the air smells pure and footsteps converge, descending the hill to the lakes fashioned by volcanic springs in the deepest clefts of the rocks      while a man on a distant stage set lays the king bare      The king is no king      And the stage set amounts to nothing but a miserable naked man      Taking words literally, without lightening the weight of the subject of his reflections, forces the author to live a complacent life amidst colorful chronicles      Laying oneself bare isn’t just a matter of taking off one’s jacket      One’s pants, shirt and underwear      Laying oneself bare means weightlessness in an endless orbit, never slowing, never speeding up      Amenable to one’s fate      Stubborn, anxious      Squirming in the womb      Falling endlessly      Until one’s head spins      Hailing the words that have plummeted into a void that cannot be filled      Over the hours      Stubborn and anxious, they fall endlessly until their heads spin and they hail the words that have plummeted into a void that cannot be filled, amenable to fate      They squirm in the womb until their heads spin      Over the hours      Spent squirming in the womb      They hail the words that have plummeted into a void that cannot be filled      Stubborn and anxious, until their heads spin      Amenable to their fate, they fall endlessly      Over the hours      Their heads now spinning      They squirm in the womb      Amenable to their fate, hailing the words that have plummeted into a void that cannot be filled        Endlessly they fall, stubborn and anxious        Over the hours      Endlessly they fall towards their fate until their heads spin, stubborn and anxious, they hail the words that have plummeted into a void that cannot be filled, and they squirm in the womb      Over the hours      Welcome words plummet into a void that cannot be filled until the world spins, falling endlessly, and they squirm in a womb that is stubborn and anxious and amenable to its fate       Over the hours        The exertion ceases when the temple is completed. In the temple stillness reigns over the foundations and over each column and arch sculpted out of brooding granite hacked out of the hardened lava rocks      It is then, in the silence, that words find an order and thoughts flow      Art demands intuition      Art demands the sublime      Art demands an unutterable density      Art demands an infinite breadth      Art demands extreme precision      Art demands that time itself will do its bidding      Art demands not to die and is granted its wish      Art tends to darkness but houses the light that shatters and nourishes the stillness in the dawning bright      the treasure boldly emerges from the depths      death is tormented in the beast’s incandescent bowels      orbits bend their skull towards the dice of fate emerging from the mercury      in the exact overlap of events the meteorite strikes the forehead and the skull backs away until the jaw and cry are disemboweled      the eyes removed from fate remain to watch over the horizon      fate’s dwelling is the temple of endless reflections      inviolable fate dwells in the coincidence of events and gathers within this exactness whose formation in flesh and bones appears to be a miracle      since when      suddenly nothing was like before      it appeared to me as an unusual wake      by which the earth dried up in an immense plain of      ashes      smoke gave way to the life of the fire      the song in a choral mass burned inside the skull’s crater      now I count the hours and the whisperings twisting in the remote and teeming passageways of life lost      hopeless in a journey so long that messengers like the facts of light come from sidereal distances and bring with them the news of bodies dead for centuries      a smile lights up in our eyes as if everything had happened yesterday      today or an instant ago      I can smell the flowers and immense distances invade and my heart beats      I can feel the veins      I mind my obstinate steps in the mud      my knee hurts      sweat evaporates from the body and in the skull the brain is aflame without a care for anything      from the roots it burns the bones and from the petals of fire life springs forth untamed by the rivers and the rocks in turmoil      the descent of the song of the waves thunders between the walls of the snow mountains and nothing was as before      in the furrows traced by furious rivers that devour mountains over the centuries down to the remotest depths of the earth      I long to shout words inclined to truth and be heard from these abysses      words torn by my teeth from the living flesh of thought never yielding until the hour of sleep      now you beloved think with relief that things can in the end reach their abode       I wish it were so yet objects lose weight and in an infinite widening in the skull’s cavern the inanimate is fed and breathes as if it were alive      it devours every thought that comes forth from joy and pain      the 6 and 6      6 of life      6 of love and of fire      6 of water and rock      under a shower of meteorites seated with my shoulders to the wall motionless as if I were stone I can feel my heart pounding in a petrified, still volume      the events of the vital hours that foreshadow vision let the work commence      seasonal plants embroider the ground thanks to the mild temperatures during the unplanned hours of life and evaporate in continuation on the rocky mountain paths like the bodies of black snakes cloaked in the shining light of the moon rays and revealing truths hidden inside deep wells      the wayfarer bends down to gather medicinal herbs sprouting up after a long rainfallthoughts fly out and cross the stone walls during the hours before the vision      time allows no more pauses      thinking of the past no longer inhabits the fate cast by the dice embodying dense poison and light      they are all marked by 6 on all 6 sided      willed by fate and makes no concessions changing and falling like drops ending up in the depths of meanders and melting into the mercurial sea unrelentingly nourish the vital hours preceding the vision of magmatic thought      the vital hours anticipating the vision play an infinite combination stretching to the inevitable and unknown point of the mind beyond any worldly reason      author, custodian, blacksmith tirelessly strikes the red-hot iron until it is transformed into tempered steel no longer subject to a deterioration of body and life      custodian ignited by desire as if a flower blooming in the fire sharpens and files the blade and vibrates without making any concessions      the blade is silhouetted in the blacksmith’s hands without lingering as if it were the vein in the pulsating head of a man constantly at play in the vital hours preceding the vision      the comforting slope of knowledge is of no help now to anyone playing during the vital hours preceding the vision      the comforting slope of wealth and life and God are of no use to anyone playing during the vital hours preceding the vision      nor are feelings nor reason nor the forces of gravity nor its absence of any use to you      in the vital hours preceding the vision your head is the target of the meteorites coming from the unknown where their body is originally non-existent      the target struck is the head in those very vital hours preceding the vision      an event called intuition is so full of gravity and lightness that no scales are able to measure them      author of the flashing instants of the event shapes the work in any place where lurking vanity cannot wait to elaborate the appropriate works clothes in those vital hours preceding the vision      while passionately waiting for celestial formations, steps across the threshold      I touch the hidden walls in the foundations supporting the weight of abodes       silence grows bolder with each step      I see the dense shadows that seem real      in their reflections I see them disappear like air breathed by the earth the day after a rainfall      a herm, custodian, guardian watching over the temple tirelessly strikes the irons and hones the blade in the red-hot furnace      it pours the steel alloy and stays the same just as if time had never passed      art appears out of something unforeseen      it devours life and has always been rejuvenated, remaining sovereign      sword staff snakes in the monks’ plate in the face of life and death      and plays with fate with the dice and makes no concessions to luck or vanity      in the game of fate the stilled mirror comes to life and spills out like an infinite source of light      beams      flashes      I hear the damned noise      I distract my mind and think of the faraway day in a cloister      I turn back a last time on my way out and see a fish on one of the columns towards the lake      the silence of the cloister is suddenly crystallized and I see the fish traverse it      I am struck by the meteorite that fell in the desert of my head back then      events do not give warning      they appear in conditions of constant tension and in the endless boiling of the spirit of the material until it evaporates      I hear the echoes of strikes in the racket of the world      I hear boulders falling into the depths      I hear the thunder tear the earth      without wanting to, I stay there and watch      I hear the strikes without rancor or memories in the terrible starry temples of my head      I hear everything with exact clarity and know where I must go      to wind my way towards the foundations at night picks me up and I see the sweating shadow as if there were real      coming from the walls of Rome where the knowledgeable young boy ignoring care      takes the dice of fate in hand      6 of 6 sides      light appears      without arduous hesitation and comes fearlessly entering the cracks of the deeply burned ground with the first rainfalls      it sheds all the energies compressing it since birth      and turns on its heel to merge into the ground in a divine devastation      the key to understanding melds with the lock and finds the way to perdition         the irresponsible artist, the further down he goes, the less information he will have form the surface      wind carries vanities to fill the eyes elsewhere lending justice to the embroidered cloak that belonged to the governor      who disappeared once his term had ended      daring people pay no attention to the exactitude of becoming and the vision that feeds mortal life without losing heart nor importance      man herm      thought of man the book      of affirmation of the thought the beating stick      many things occur      many people stay there to watch and others fear they will lose their sight       in order to generate nothing is conceded to what happened and it necessary to be faithful to one’s own vision      minor arts and weak thought are tales of professions and survival      art does not sow      art strikes and blinds and is melded onto history      scandalous acts move feelings while sleeping spirits and brains fattened by boredom provoke apparent satisfaction but once the effect is over the opposite result takes place, an even greater lethargy      the path is taken at various points in this sense      all that is left to the authors of the scandal is to heighten the dose each time they face the public until they reach beyond those exact things that are real      the real is the end of any creative process and the physical collapse to the point of committing a crime      traveling beneath the skin of things      touch the nerves      crossing paths with death      abysses      voids      joy and ecstasy have nothing to do with corpses dragged out of morgues      crimes committed in great novels are light years away from a crime actually committed by a common delinquent      crossing into reality is the end of any possible recollection and stirring of creative energies      I am thinking of the beheadings in works of art and of the severed heads in wartime reporting and am thinking of the limbs that cross into reality      all real things of life decay in time      nothing remains of life      the truths of art devour time and rejuvenate through a diabolic and contrary process in which humanity never crosses into reality      it is only this unexplainable trace which is left      the vision melts the heads of the herms in their journey      thoughts take their time and remain undaunted as if nothing had happened yet things do happen      the herms in the temple pay attention to the silence and change into a slow and constant body each time they come out to face the racket of the world      here they are springing from the turbulent waters and they are whetted with life never experienced before      and now the cold is knocking at the door of the vigil warmed by time       I would like to approach but any attempt encloses the veils of that doubt abandoned in order to narrate fears left over from the pallid pleasure of seeing pink cheeks that scan the short words on long lines of the indifferent passing river      which looks neither up nor down nor looks      perhaps it is only the waves which take pleasure rolling one over the next in the attempt to hide      or slaking your thirst you dare drink upside down      or your back will sweat all the water of your boiling body      the knocked-upon door will shake pouring onto my thoughts warmed over time.