Ten years ago, ten centuries ago
I haven’t written any poems for nearly ten years,
and yet the earth’s axis imaginary has not altered a degree in its decline.
I mean, in short, that even verseless will autumns and springs return,
that galaxies in astral remoteness burst,
that there are black holes in space,
that from the plain breasts of Aphrodite the Milky Way evolved,
that light years are never-ending,
that hurricanes punish the poorest,
that musicians compose operas,
that city traffic lights turn off and on,
that there are impossible stars and impossible starred flags,
that bells in villages ring for deceased,
that in certain hotels there are desolate rooms of desolate silence,
that the summer sea is of an incandescent blue,
that, instead, there are no waves in centaurs or in mermaids,
that the eyes of statues aren’t gazing upon us,
that cheetahs chase terrified antelopes,
that must ferments in wineries,
that oil rests in mills,
that seeds germinate,
and dogs and shepherds dance,
that rivers mirror in indolent meanders,
that couples kiss each other in shadowy parks,
that worms are eating coffin wood,
that fish swim, and vultures fly,
that shower water sprays out warm,
that there are sharp looks like stylus,
that dictionaries are tombs of words,
that poets invent ethereal signs and names,
that horns mortify donkeys and meek mules,
that orange blooms flower in March,
that years are going on while we add diopters,
that divine Leda mated with a swan,
that blood is a fake in a movie (not in the Basque Country, Corsica or Ulster),
that I deeply loved a black-eyed girl,
that we might reach Mars someday,
that I detest those who are always ruling,
that seismographs detect earthquakes,
that sails point out the long way of the wind,
that sages deciphered hieroglyphs (Babylonians, Egyptians, Greeks, Iberians),
that the stock market was down thirty points,
that we were happy, innocent, white, like lilies,
that every day we turned black into white,
that we read novels in sister languages, understandable,
that some collected ancient books, proverbs, butterflies,
that others cultivated red roses, with suggestive names such as Damask rose,
that the sun rose for everyone – Wrong!
that ice shone in cracks and in powdered glass,
that old women – like rows of ants – went to pray the rosary,
that low swifts’ flights announce rain,
that dolphins are happy at sea,
that lightning flashes and thunders roar,
that there are those who walk on Persian carpets,
that cigars get burnt in phthisis sufferers’ lungs,
that the Amazon is burning down,
that there are sweet and harmonic crystal flutes,
that a bull pace stars in sapphire fields,
that I was lost in a dark forest,
that the world spreads Tirant’s lively fame,
that brunette women walk along the streets,
that no one remembers the nicest poems,
that the leaning tower of Pisa is not falling,
that we used to wear silk shirts and ties,
that we summered – with our parents – in white right clean spas,
that it was death, perhaps in Venice,
that it was death (I, a fourteen-year-old boy, not as handsome as Tadzio),
that it was death that used to move me so much,
that divine Wagner, nonetheless, does not ruffle me,
that divine Milton does not raffle me,
that divine Goethe does not raffle me,
that instead, I am moved by March and Shakespeare,
that those tender round girls’ breast smelled of amber and cherries,
that priests forgave sins,
that above all I trust Almighty God,
that we have told more lies than stars are in heaven,
that every night is getting more inhospitable,
that suns and clouds depart like birds (or maybe just like suns, like clouds),
that we don’t believe what we read in newspapers,
that bees make melliferous honey,
I feel grieved when we forget the classics,
that mirrors reflect withered bodies, ghosts and twilight,
that beds have forgotten their past of love and lust,
that dreams evaporate, they are dark matters,
that oleander flowers are poisonous,
that perfumed laurel is very noble,
that nothing is born out of nothing,
that the moon is pale torch for lovers,
that saliva is their bond,
that the Titanic shipwrecked between ice and panic,
that thoughts often wreck,
that desire wrecks, that our heart wrecks,
that we shall die on the least expected day,
that epitaphs will be worthless to us,
that I might be ridiculous when I want to be epic,
that I might be very tender when I want to be tough,
that human bones are harder than oak wood,
that yesterday brown bears roamed the Pyrenees,
that Os – basic chemistry – is a symbol of Osmium,
that Os – inverted circumflex – is a Russian people,
that, forgetting bears and bones, twilight is placid, a tourist postcard,
that, suddenly, I remember Palmyra’s and Petra’s bright landscapes,
that Petra and Palmyra are mythical names of forgotten cities,
that Palmyra and Petra are pillars and porticoes of ruined temples,
that Petra and Palmyra are stones and palm trees,
that Palmyra and Petra are just the desert, the last limit of man,
that I may have become old and life is running away (was it worth?)
without having written those verses I had been longing.
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