WHAT IS THE MEASURE, THE TABLE...
Carlos Barbarito
trans. Brian Cole
°***°
What is the measure, the table,
the outline? In the shadow, instinct;
in the light, rust
that migrates from cable to cable.
I think, I don't think: it combs its hair
in the shadow, after desire
and its conclusion;
brevity,
infinity: the water is confused,
it falls thickly towards a still centre,
beauty is made and unmade
while I spy what remains of the world
through your last voice,
harsh and deep.
What is the cabal,
the melody, the bow
now that everything dies away
and in what falls, rolls and overturns:
soon no-one, past, periphery?
THIS IS MY LIFE, THE LEAF SEEMS...
Carlos Barbarito
trans. Brian Cole
°***°
This is my life, the leaf seems to say
as it falls from the branch
or the stone that rolls down the hillside.
Not much: no faith
worth being praised or attacked,
no music of the spheres,
no sky bursting into flames.
Under my feet the future ashes
which will supervene at the final distraction,
the penultimate blasphemy;
all light will go out,
and on the horse of the waves
a cobalt fish will ride in
to bite without pity the sex and the eyelids.
The leaf feels in its way
as in its way the stone feels,
but only someone with hands
finds softness in the flesh
and hardness in the bones.
It's true: no man is visible.
The day does not last,
the mouth fasts at one side of the salt;
in the apparent healthiness, abjuration and vileness;
only lack of will-power, it lingers on:
oil that stays there and does not boil.
...
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