To the abattoir send your useless words,
Insatiable forms, boneless fruits,
Voids decorated with illusions,
Hides inflated with mist.
May muteness descend into the pit of your tongue,
May the taste of eternity grant you peace of mind,
That the cross on which you nail definitions
Crumble to dust.
Only then, like a saint's sculpture
Polished by kisses of believers,
You mouth can pour words comparable to suns.
They will not be yours, born of a humble throat.
They will have letters, sounds, shapes,
But this time fertile with a pregnancy
That bursts into chanting,
Cathedrals of perpetual growth, gigantic
Dictionaries peopled countless times
By a solitary ‘thanks'.

Translated by Tom Billsborough