Instead of Smiles
We all have specks of hate
gilding blue our day
in our bed of magnolias,
flecks macerating juices,
cheerful blooms, its leisurely fruit.
What seas, what tempestuous depths
beat against our chest?
Instead of smiles,
they open claws and fangs.
The sea raises
and its roar stirs celibate waters
with hatred. Behind it
comes another wave, another ferment,
giving you more of its hate.
The studded tower rises
like an emergency,
it is a monument of unbridled fury.
When we feel the smell of burning flesh
there's such a deep cry, a mask on fire
ignites our words.
We all have a lethal spear in our tongue,
because where there was warm blood,
explosive blooming bones, bones without woodworms,
doggedly, hate grows,
its tongue scalded by
the atrocious vinegar of meaninglessness.
And our hearts, made to house love,
thrash our muscles,
pump the desperate juices of anger.
When our index finger stirs
and points with fire,
when it prints in the air its mark of disgust,
when fully erect phalanx by phalanx,
what a rain of reproaches.
The gesture, the expression,
the accusative finger,
and the nail.
Oh! The nail,
a buckler hamstring kneeling on his chest.
We all have something to reproach the world,
its inaccurate portion of pleasure and melancholy,
its unhurried, vexatious, virtue
of being beyond,
while we are with hands clasped close to the rumble air
and of course, its circumstances of
edge, extreme lassitude, blind abyss, its
inappropriateness, and all its hastes.
Somewhere in our body
there is an alarm, an alert thermostat
sending pulsations, something that says: