Oswaldo


I am no object of desire of yours . . .
The blades of my soul
Are overladen with racemes of light.
Smeared with the mysterious darkness from the glow of words
My hands confiscate my days
glaring with ink
that flows painfully opaque
on the breast of dreams . . .
Horror-stricken, I drink at the lofty heights
Whose marine dew blessings surround me
With vows of nothingness
And  wild goats of whiteness . . .
The sky’s fibres testify
To my disobedience
And my disengagement from the sin of original disclosure . . .
From the pain that lurks
Behind the white sun
And the musical minaret of speech.