(andreas Vesalius, Padua,1538)

He cuts into immobile matter,
useless echo of an ancient, arduous love
amid roots. He cuts
like one who feels pity
for a sick animal,
for a leaf that falls
as fall a star, innocence.
(In a distant mirror
is reflected, still,
the perfect nude) .
He cuts a pain that persists
after the cut, pervades the metal,
the hand, far beyond the room, the ground,
the stones, far beyond the world, the spheres
as improbable as pure.

by Carlos Barbarito

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