We are sleeping with red angels
who show us the desert without small letters
and those sweet desolate awakenings.
We are sleeping.
A single wing destroys us, evasion,
we have wheels older than the feathers flown away and lost,
with which to explore the graveyards of slowness,
the only lust.
The bottle we surround with the bandages of our wounds
resists no longing.
Let's take the hearts, the brains,
the muscles of rage,
let's take the invisible flowers of the pale girls
and children joined together,
let's take the hand of memory,
let's close the eyes of recollection,
a theory of trees delivered by the thieves
strikes us and divides us, all the pieces are good.
Which will gather them up: terror, suffering, or disgust?
Let us sleep, my brothers.
The inexplicable chapter has become incomprehensible.
Giants go by exhaling terrible laments, gigantic laments,
laments of the kind the dawn wants to utter,
the dawn now no longer able to complain,
since then, my brothers, since then.
