Widower's Monologue (Lament)

I open the door, return to the familiar mercy
of my own house where a vague
feeling protects me and a son who never was
tastes of shipwreck, by waves or torments cloaked
with acid and summer's heat.
cloud the fading face. Arcadian refuge
of dead gods fill the region,
and below the wind breathes a conscious
gust which fanned my forehead yesterday
still sought in the disturbed present.

sheets,
I could not speak of #### candles, smoke
nor the humility and compassion, #### calm
at the afternoon's edges, I could not
say "her hands", "her sadness", "our country"\
because everything in her name
is lighted by her wounds. Like a sinal sprung
of foam, an epitaph, curtains, a bed, beds
and destruction moving toward disdain
while the lime triumphs denying her nakedness
the shade of emptiness.

Now time begins, the bitter smile
of the guest who in sleeplesness sings,
waking his anger, within the vile city
the calcined music with curled lip
from an indecision
that flows witout cease. Star or porpoise, yonder

Widower's Monologue (Lament)

I open the door, return to the familiar mercy
of my own house where a vague
sense protects me and the son who never was
tasting of shipwreck, waves or fervent cloak
with acid summers
cloud the fading face. Archaic refuge
of dead gods fill the region,
and below the wind breathes a conscious
gust which fanned my forehead yesterday
still sought in the disturbed present.

I could not speak of sheets, candles, smoke
nor humility and compassion, calm
at the afternoon's edges, I could not
say "her hands", "her sadness", "our country"
because everything in her name
is lighted by her wounds. Like a signal sprung
of foam, an epitaph, curtains, a bed, rugs
and destruction moving toward disdain
while the lime triumphs denying her nakedness
the color of emptiness.

Now time begins, the bitter smile
of the guest who in sleeplessness sings,
waking his anger, within the vile city
the calcined music with curled lip

Widower's Monologue (##)

I open the door, return to the familiar mercy
of my own house where a vague
sense protects me in the son who never was
smacking a passionate
# of shipwreck, waves or # cloak
whose acid summers
cloud the fading face. Archaic refuge
of dead gods fills the region,
and below, the wind breathes, a conscious
gust which fanned my forehead yesterday
still sought in the # present.

Widower's Monologue

I open the door, return to the familiar mercy
of my own house where a vague
sense protects me the son who never was
smacking of shipwreck, waves or a passionate cloak
whose acid summers
cloud the fading face. Archaic refuge
of dead gods fills the region,
and below, the wind breathes, a conscious
gust which fanned my forehead yesterday
still sought in the perturbed present.

Now time, begins, the bitter smile
of the guest who in sleeplessness sings,
waking his anger, within the vile city
the calcined music with curled lip

The Wanderings of the Tribe

Autumn surrounds the valley, iniquity
overflows, and the hill sacred to splendor
responds in the form of a revenge. The dust measures
and misfortune knows who gallops
where all gallop with the same fury:
constrained attendance on the broken circle
by the son who startles his father gazing
from a window buried in the sand.

Blood of man's victim

besieges doors, cries out: "Here no one lives",
but the mansion is inhabited by the barbarian who seeks
dignity, yoke of the fatherland
broken, abhored by memory,
as the husband looks at his wife face to face
and close to the threshold, the intruder
hastens the trembling that preceeds misfortune.

Iron and greed, a decisive leprosy

of hatreds that were fed by rapine and de receipts
wets the seeds. Brother against brother
comes to the challenge without pity
brings to a pause its stigma against the kingdom of pity:
arrogance goads the leap into the void
that as the wind dies the eagles abandon
their quest like tumbled statues.