I walk in the land of the Dead.
My solitary hands smother the whistling of distant trains
Children run toward me
I run toward the poem.
In the chamber of the Dead,
I’m reading “the drunken boat”:
In my body shine a thousand fires the gold of the Hunters in trance.
Did I get lost in the poem?
In my poem I hear
The laughter of the Dead and the howling of orphans
My red desert brings the blind poet into the world.
The blind poet dreams on the bed of eternity.
I dig the marble of the rotten rotten poem…
Until the blackness of the world covers
The bloody mouths of the jackals.
Ignores the limousines of ministers
The salt of the avant-garde text
This is my poem
That accompanies me at dawn into the land of the Living Dead.
It is in my poem
That living poets
And dead thieves
Are killing each other.
My red desert brings the blind poet into the world
The poet SEES the sparkle of eternity in the eye of the eagle-jaguar
Drunk, I lie down in the maw of the poem and wait for the FLOOD.