A Vision

Our city fled,

So I sought its paths in haste

And looked around—I saw only horizon,

And I perceived that those who flee tomorrow

And those who return tomorrow

Are a body I tear apart on my page.

I could see: the clouds were a throat,

The water formed walls of flame.

I saw a sticky yellow thread,

A thread of the history that clings to me.

A hand mulls over my life, ties my days together

Time and again, a hand that was heir

To the race of dolls and the progeny of rags.

I entered the rites of creation

In the waters’ womb and the trees’ virginity,

I saw trees seducing me,

I saw rooms among their branches,

Beds and windows resisting me,

I saw children and read them

My sand, I read them

Suras of clouds and verses of stone,

I saw them journeying with me,

I saw pools of tears and the corpse of rain

Gleaming behind them.

Our city fled—

What am I? A spike of grain

Weeping for a lark

That died beneath the snow and cold,

Died without revealing its messages,

Died without writing anyone.

I questioned it and saw its corpse

Discarded at the end of time,

And I cried out, “Silence of the ice, I

Am the home of the exiled lark.

Its grave is my home, and I’m an exile.”

Our city fled,

And I saw my feet transform

Into a river overflowing with blood,

Into ships growing distant, expanding,

And I saw my drowned shores seducing ...

My waves were wind and pelicans.

Our city fled,

And refusal is a crushed pearl

Whose powder anchors my ships,

And refusal is a woodcutter living

On my face—it gathers me and sets me on fire—

And refusal is the distance that disperses me.

I see my blood and I see my death

Beyond my blood:

It speaks to me and pursues me.

Our city fled,

And I saw how my shroud illumines me,

I saw ... If only death would grant me time.