CB (6 de febrero de 1955 / Pergamino, Buenos Aires, Argentina)

This Is My Life, The Leaf Seems To Say...

This is my life, the leaf seems to say
as it falls from the branch
or the stone that rolls down the hillside.
Not much: no faith
worth being praised or attacked,
no music of the spheres,
no sky bursting into flames.
Under my feet the future ashes
which will supervene at the final distraction,
the penultimate blasphemy;
all light will go out,
and on the horse of the waves
a cobalt fish will ride in
to bite without pity the sex and the eyelids.
The leaf feels in its way
as in its way the stone feels,
but only someone with hands
finds softness in the flesh
and hardness in the bones.
It's true: no man is visible.
The day does not last,
the mouth fasts at one side of the salt;
in the apparent healthiness, abjuration and vileness;
only lack of will-power, it lingers on:
oil that stays there and does not boil.

(Translated bt Brian Cole)

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