Miracles. Gardens. You chasing
the magical cloud. Then altars. An olive
branch and the white woollen thread.

Again: nobody comes. Again:
isn't it strange? Imagine, I tell myself.
Imagine the contest. The room.
The dim light.
The sword. And that melting pot of names
and blood that is the monster.
Son of the white bull with bewitched
tongue. Evasive vocabulary.
Of words with no sex.
Imagine, I tell myself, the immense
charade when he hits.

Again: the thread doesn't taut.
Again: isn't it strange?
Where are you now, which silly
hand has suspended your name?
If you were dead…
beyond… If you were dead
would I still make sense?
Leaned against this entrance.
The hand raised, funny,
in my heart.

Translated by Tania Calcinaro