I put my hands in my pockets and took them out.
We walked silently. But what could one say
when the world is so bright and your eyes
so big? A boy, at the corner of the street, sang
about his lemonade.
We split one, and the swallow that
suddenly flew by your hair, what did it say to you?
Your hair was so nice. Impossible, it must have said
something to you.
The hotel was small and in an old neighbourhood next
to the train station
and we saw them manoeuvring the trains in the glare.
Truly, that spring, that morning, that simple,
happy room
where I held your naked body for the first time
the tears that I couldn’t hold back at the end,
how they suited you.
Ah, our home was warm back then,
our lamp was joyous
the world was so great.
The fried oil smelled in the kitchen.
I bent to kiss your hands, which were full of flour,
my lips would turn white. Then I kissed
your lips that got full of flour too.
We looked at each other and laughed.
Spring said good evening to us through
the open window
A girl sang at the opposite window.
It was so nice to be alive.
Then the rain started. I wrote your name on all
our steamed-up windows
so that we could get a piece of clear sky in our room.

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Total Destruction of the ego
…and instead of despairing
for your ravaged skin
drowning in the deluge of his memory
as you face in distress
the barren field of your future,
while you often mention the word tomorrow out of habit
instead of the internal end of the world
the egoistic hope
that some meaning may hide in your life,
you feel an unexpected strong pain
seeing images of nature’s destruction
the one which, in reality, was
the consolation of your soul
that you would live forever under the roots of its children
that you would feel leaves stirring under the soil
and that birds would perch on branches and rest for a moment.
Yet the horror before the darkest destruction
that encircles the forests
the horror you feel when you listen
to the predictions of the useless experts
that perhaps the tree tops
will never caress the sky on these mountain peaks
the horror strangely mixes with elation
in the roots of your heart
that you finally escaped from the prison of ego
which often with meaningless details
annulled your share of compassion.
You don’t hang from the railings
of your unimportance anymore
you compare it to the eternal meaning
of germination
and you bestow your body unto it.

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excerpt

The roof was right above his head. Without warning they dropped
him and stopped him abruptly before reaching the floor. I heard
his shoulders pop. He fainted.
I talked to the Inquisitor, keeping my hood on and my voice low.
He had never seen me before, but Salvador and I were very alike.
He argued with me. I had to find the way to make him leave.
“Cut his tongue. If he doesn’t wish to speak, he shall never speak
again,” the Inquisitor said to one of the torturers, who took out his
knife and went to obey the order.
“Señor Inquisitor,” I said, “how do you suppose he’ll ever confess
if you have his tongue cut out?”
“This man hasn’t talked in a year, Señor Guardian,” he said to me.
“We have been merciful and understanding. Haven’t I seen you
before?”
“I don’t recall having the pleasure, my son.” I said.
“I never forget a face,” the Inquisitor said, and then he went on to
tell me that I looked familiar. I asked his permission to convince
the prisoner to confess. I could see Salvador struggling to keep the
torturer from prying his mouth open. I threatened the Inquisitor.
“The king, my lord,” I said, “will be most pleased to hear about
your Christian duty so much like his own. I was hoping to assure
him of your concern about the salvation of souls this afternoon
during the audience His Majesty has so graciously granted me.”
That did it.
“Of course,” said the bastard, “that is always of the utmost…

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