Translated by Cindy Rinne
“Go sweep out the chamber of your heart.
Make it ready to be the dwelling place of the Beloved.”
Imagination appears not ready for false steps.
The word slows down for the afternoon. Waits
among question marks, pauses naked of parenthesis.
The imagination seeks memories on the path
of the afternoon, listens to the silence, and says I exist
despite the wind. Disappearing into the magic spell, I listen
to the undertones of my body, to the rhythm of words,
in mutant syllables. The word arrives empty of thought
and exclamations, moving towards me. I express who I am
with sound, and I prepare myself to swing from a light,
suddenly freefalling. I cross the street to the other sidewalk,
and I touch the uprooted sanctuary between today
and a constant conjugated present.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 4.