In a forest where they drive off the tree trunks
and carve the light
It must be
You must be

To open the wound
to write in its blood - with its blood
That means, your yearning there for her
Is the feeling of the sail/tent of her exile in you
And your approach to the secret of existence


In truth
You still have the distance to set a mirage ablaze,
A step that cuts across the absence
You pass down the road and raise the flags.

O this surprise,
go away from intuition
And O my senses,
go near to my thoughts!
Pile up, you narrow vessels for things
upon the things
And invent the conversation of the chain
And the market wounded in error
The conversation of wrist-shackle and restraint

Hurry up, naked things - things having pity on me
Toward me,
Restrain my superstitions in curses and smoke
In sunsets that arise as exclamation
And proclaim your ghosts to me
to me
Ignite in celebration and good-tidings
In mourning
In mourning
As good omen

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