(...)
I doubt/ I stammer.
It’s just that
it’s just that I glimpse their bended heads I say/ their full torsos/ and though I know they don’t desire/ don’t desire more tongues of gold descending the slope hand in hand with the wind/ know they don’t want/ I can’t help but glimpse/ glimpse their knees devoutly poised like butterflies before you/ and I see/ right there I see/ how they strain/ how they fondle thoughts of initiating novices/ tender sprouts/ sparks/ thirsty daughters/ all tattooed with the curse of fire/ and I predict the forge/ how they can’t but forge offspring/ mute beings shrouded in windgusts/ for they didn’t fall when the blaze and the heat/ and now they seem grateful/ because they sing blinded by the sun/ they lift their legs/ their very thin/ over any even black body in the river/ only water this torrent/ aswirl at its vanishing points/ seething and a crowd of corpses where the wing may rest ...
Watch.
Observe the wounded/ lacerated body/ festered by rebel wind.
Watch.
Watch how it slides unimpeded down the barren/ how down the trunkless immensity/ how down the bald slopes/ how amid the black skies/ the lonely and cacique skies/ how/ how it gnaws/ how it gnaws at your body and bygone/ your open wastes/ your thirsty daughters/ their mouths so dry from so much wind/ and watch/ watch how it cries a torrential cry/ with tears long lost under the mutilated trunks/ and how it sprouts everywhere in eyes of water/ and how it descends in cascades/ how it deploys that lost view/ how it attends to atrocities/ senseless profit/ the beast that we are.
(...)
A wind/ a wind that opens the womb/ a wind that shakes the earth/ that sprouts tenderness/ spills heat and swallows/ swallows the pain of men.
But no/ it doesn’t come/ doesn’t grope/ seems not to be there except when it kneads life/ when seedlings sprout/ and everything/ everything returns/ returns to begin again.
I doubt/ I stammer.
It’s just that
it’s just that I glimpse their bended heads I say/ their full torsos/ and though I know they don’t desire/ don’t desire more tongues of gold descending the slope hand in hand with the wind/ know they don’t want/ I can’t help but glimpse/ glimpse their knees devoutly poised like butterflies before you/ and I see/ right there I see/ how they strain/ how they fondle thoughts of initiating novices/ tender sprouts/ sparks/ thirsty daughters/ all tattooed with the curse of fire/ and I predict the forge/ how they can’t but forge offspring/ mute beings shrouded in windgusts/ for they didn’t fall when the blaze and the heat/ and now they seem grateful/ because they sing blinded by the sun/ they lift their legs/ their very thin/ over any even black body in the river/ only water this torrent/ aswirl at its vanishing points/ seething and a crowd of corpses where the wing may rest ...
Watch.
Observe the wounded/ lacerated body/ festered by rebel wind.
Watch.
Watch how it slides unimpeded down the barren/ how down the trunkless immensity/ how down the bald slopes/ how amid the black skies/ the lonely and cacique skies/ how/ how it gnaws/ how it gnaws at your body and bygone/ your open wastes/ your thirsty daughters/ their mouths so dry from so much wind/ and watch/ watch how it cries a torrential cry/ with tears long lost under the mutilated trunks/ and how it sprouts everywhere in eyes of water/ and how it descends in cascades/ how it deploys that lost view/ how it attends to atrocities/ senseless profit/ the beast that we are.
(...)
A wind/ a wind that opens the womb/ a wind that shakes the earth/ that sprouts tenderness/ spills heat and swallows/ swallows the pain of men.
But no/ it doesn’t come/ doesn’t grope/ seems not to be there except when it kneads life/ when seedlings sprout/ and everything/ everything returns/ returns to begin again.
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