Some day I will no longer see
my body dipped in mellowness of days,
rotating comets quietly undo my hair,
I will be everywhere,
delivering my timid praise,
I will be everywhere, but I'll be no longer me.
I'll go through your body, a remorse
about what you haven't done.
I'll go right through, a hissing tongue
pronouncing its deprecation and its loss
touching and plucking within you,
the plectrum of a broken song.
When hail hits our window and the asters
don't gaze at us, when the wind, our silver child,
howls outside, in the unmeasured wold,
the curtain licking like a tongue of a dead horse
the window glass, its salty patterns and its wild
continents reverberating silently, but keeping hold
of the enormity in which we loved and split,
you'll hear my steps within your chest.
What draws me to you, what draws me to you,
my sad obliviated retinue,
for I remember only what was never keeping me,
what let me whiz like an abandoned string,
not knowing if it's broken or undone,
free to remember harmonies, to roam
within the land of silent melodies of chance.
I'll go though your chest, the arrow, the disclosure,
the hidden emerald of blood, the swift revenge.
You'll only move the vase, take out faded shadows,
abruptly put new ones in it, the curtain stops to hiss,
the wind subsides. I have collected
my due, I've taken all the vastness of forgetfulness
with me, all grains of days and hours,
all universe that curls inside itself and sobs,
and blooms again, and dances on the tip of grief,
I've taken the exactitude of sorrow
and left you here, your uncertainty, your life,
and your tomorrow.
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