MY VALÉRY - 1
Carlos Barbarito
trans. Brian Cole
°***°
There are no pictures, there are words.
And here appears the mystery as much as
the vice that for ever we are.
And we are pride, but locked up with a key
that thinks it will open doors and lies to itself
and lies to whoever uses it.
There is no complete
understanding, nebulous
geometrical solution,
there is a stigma, injustice, cheap
magic, that fails in the moment
of taking flowers from the hat.
Perhaps there is some kind of nobility,
of faith, but clumsy and blind,
a small animal afraid of fire
that does not flee, it stays
with eyes fixed on the flames.
Perhaps there is a luminous stone
at the other end of the rope.
A sea more or less clean.
The outline of a body, at least,
and not a shadow.
Words,
sounds in opposition
one to the other, that struggle,
that clash against each other
striking sparks,
or blend together, copulate,
and have uncertain offspring.
Perhaps the only essential is darkness
and not light, the becoming
and not what we hold in our hands,
what we leave on one side, a residue,
what is silent and not what is talked about,
the stranger and not the in-law,
the skull that hits the gravel
and not music, or what we think is music,
that loses the flesh to gain the soul.
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