Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Jamas volveré

To touch the sidereal limits with the hands
 — Otero

Gone are the stars that are not the sun
That punctuate heights no longer heights,
Heights become space. Things I will never know
With my proximity senses are gone, all gone:

I will never hear a star upon this earth,
But I feel the warm gusts your wings stir up.
If in the daytime I were to leave bread and fruit for you
You might come again. I am not so different from
The mangrove swamp where you play.

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