pygmy

sunday heavy lid of the bubbling blood
weekly weight squatting on his muscles
fallen inside his rediscovered self
the bells ring for no reason and we too
ring bells for no reason and we too
we rejoice at the sound of the chains
that we set ringing in us with the bells

*

what is this language that whips us we leap
into light
our nerves are whips in the hands of time
and doubt comes with a single colorless wing
screwing itself squeezing cursing into us
like the crumpled paper of an opened carton
gift of another age to the glidings of the fishes
of bitterness

*

the bells ring for no reason and we too
the eyes of fruit watch us attentively
and all our actions are controlled nothing is
hidden
the river water has washed its bed so much
it carries away the soft threads of the looks that loitered
at the foot of walls in bars it has licked lives
enticed the weak tied up temptations dried up ecstacies
got to the bottom of old texts
and unbound the sources of imprisoned tears
the enslaved sources of daily suffocations
looks that shake with desiccated hands
the clear product of day or the shadowy apparition
that give the caring richness of a smile
screwed like a flower in the buttonhole of morning
those that demand rest or voluptuousness
touches of electric vibrations starts
adventures fire certainty or slavery
looks that have crept the length of discreet
tortures
worn the pavements of towns and expiated
many base acts in acts of charity
follow one another closely around ribbons of water
and flow towards the seas carrying away their passage
human excrements and their mirages

*

the river water has washed its bed so much
that even light glides on the smooth wave
and falls on the bottom like heavy breaking stones
the bells ring for no reason and we too
the cares that we carry with us
that are our inner clothing
that we put on every morning
that night takes off with the hands of dreams ornamented
with useless metal puzzles
purified in the bath of circular landscapes
in towns prepared for carnage for sacrifice
near seas with sweeping perspectives
on mountains with anxious severities
in villages with dolorous nonchalances
the hand weighing on the head
the bells ring for no reason and we too
we leave with the departures arrive with he
arrivals
leave with the arrivals arrive when others
are leaving
for no reason a little dry a little hard severe
bread nourishment no more bread that accompanies
the savory song on the scale of the tongue
colors deposit their weight and think
and think or cry out and stay and feed
on fruit as light as smoke hover
that is thinking of the warmth that the word weaves
around its nucleus the dream called we

*

the bells ring for no reason and we too
we are walking to escape the swarm on the roads
with a flask of scenery a malady just one
a single malady that we cultivate death
I know I carry the melody in me and am not
afraid
I carry death and if I die it is death
that will carry me in his imperceptible arms
fine and light like the smell of thin grass
fine and light like a departure for no reason
without bitternenness without debts without regret
without
the bells ring for no reason and we too
why look for the end of the chain that binds us to
the chain
ring bells for no reason and we too
we shall make broken glasses ring inside us
silver coins mixed with counterfeit
the debris of feasts that burst in laughter and storm
at the doors of which gulfs could open
tombs of air mills grinding arctic bones
those feasts that carry us head in the sky
and spit on our muscles the night of molten lead

*

I am speaking of who speaks who speaks I am
alone
I am only a little sound I have several sounds in me
a frozen sound crumpled at the crossroads thrown
on the wet pavement
at the feet of hurrying men running with their deaths
around the death that extends his arms
on the face of the clock alone that lives the sun
the obscure breath of night is thickening
and along veins marine flutes are singing
transposed on octaves of layers of diverse existences
lives are repeated to infinity up to atomic thinness
and on high so high that we cannot see
and with those lives at the side that we do not see
the ultraviolet of so many parallel roads
those that we should have taken
those by which we would have been able to not come
into the world
or to have already left it a long time ago so long
that one would have forgotten both the epoch and the
earth that would have sucked our flesh
salts and metals clear liquids at the bottom of
wells

*

I am thinking of the warmth that the word leaves a
around its nucleus the dream called us