The Meat That Doesn’t Rot
Like an abandoned pavilion in which a family of lions
lazes around, a pillar that doesn’t support anything and
a square with which the stone opens into a window,
like a piece of meat from which blood was washed out
with saliva. We used to dream and it used to be as if
it hadn’t been in a dream, as if the truly escaped beasts
and the domestic cats had fled together with them. Done,
and now there is nothing else one could do not to be so.
Finished, although it still lasts like food in the stomach.
New, brand-new and incomparable, as if it was born
without a mother in the water that has flourished, in the air
that has burst into pieces similar to butterflies so forcefully
that what came into being thereafter could never forget that
at least once it knew for sure that it would never be able
to disappear by itself, but with the help of us who, now that
we are here, want to feel on our tongue the meat that doesn’t rot.