Ulysses Returns

Ulysses Returns

I cannot give them anymore of me.

In my skeleton, my lunar atrocity, what shines is the scarce

            bleeding

the remains of my stars.

The smallest and weakest point of my sentence is a vague movement

            of water after the shipwreck,

when everything has disappeared from the surface

and the very rhythm of the sea acquires the release of certain absences.

This verbal challenge, this uprooting of the soul,

this hand to hand melee of night with the legend

while darkness takes the form of trees, faces

            delivered to the appearance of the kiss,

even this time lets us hear the sea,

the ancient moaning of the beaches like a humanity tolerated

            by the dreams of their gods,

the blow of the dagger of its best killers.

The wise man distrusts the taste of the jungle of the soul,

of the body that bathes in the supplication of its own flesh

            foaming grief

of a man kneeling before the abstract of his phallus.

What meaning did you ask night for?

What dark reason for living terrified our lips

while night grass grew in our eyes?

And the dawn that someone carries in their arms like a pot

            which groans feebly,

will it grow when the sun meets his shadow

and the culture of thirsty sores establish itself in the breasts

            of History?

We all know terror is a sacred passion,

a staging of our own innocence

and of our own revelation.

We all know of this amazing mouth that is also in our

            silent lips.

I am here after misplacing my best offer,

the hidden ability of the metal with which the ancient gods

                 undressed the tearing of the world,

crime as a failed act of love,

the invincible scar of death, the old dexterity of the lips

            Collective,

the call of the sea, the signs of the bird buried in its flight.