Poema: The uninhabited light

I have arrived late

to the end of the promise

that I made myself

long, long ago,

when chance was violating

the principle that separates

our fingertips

in an apsidal lemniscate

and solitude was a prime number,

odd,

unstoppable odd and solitary loneliness,

more solitary, perhaps, than that flower

which veiled the unburied corpse of Robert Walser

in the snows of Herisau, and fate

awaited, cold and impatient

in my hallway,

mouldy with the rain

of a thousand nights without their moons.

And I

who loved you the best way

without thinking it better, how will I do

to resurrect the unpronounceable red of your lips

wounded by so many words

that were never said

or heard?

This is how I now contemplate

the uninhabited light

of those eyes of yours

without eaves or frost or winter ermine,

of those eyes that lost

the thirst of their forest

to become cruel basalt.

Tell me,

why do you insist

to dwell on my silent eyelids

with kindly stars and goldfinches,

if I, in your name, tear and fold

the leaves to the wind opening, on the bias,

the immediate chapter of the voice

in banks of futile birds?

Tell me,

what never happened, will it happen?

Let's play dead

now that no one can see us, that the night is still premature

and sleep is light

and the dead don't know they are dead.