THE DREAM'S INERTIA(1995)

 In the field burdened by hallucinations, it melted the afternoon persistent. Whose vegetation it flamed between broken stones, and the air was the dream’s messenger, that in small undulations became present beyond clouds.
 Dream:  from your entrails I left and towards you I return in my denser fever, drunken of memory that illuminates tangents. I hope didn´t forget me, that receive the lost poet in the forest of mirrors, multiplied in its prisms, able to be sublimated like alcohol; a face showing itself in the liquid glass of the cause and effect, the impulse and reflection. 

Then the search will not stop, beyond the outbreak of  flowers transmutation,  grass and mosses...
 I persecute the sound of a distant flute, as millenarian as the Earth that sleep under my feet, and that which has devoured so many utensils worked by the man.

My life with inert hexagons makes cohesion;
creeping hydra of thousand lights...
How many Cretas and Ithaca’s are waiting for you, with how many Zimbabwes you wish to find.

 I can' let walk in that breach flamed by night, the protests are useless and it crowd with wrath in my temples; nightmare is the stationary permanence of the will, the horror of never unfolding, and the negation of evident dynamics...
 To open a way through the trees I use as the spark plug my died days, that so musically crackle under the astonished stars.
And the forgetfulness is the nocturnal swirl that sucks everything you stirred, included you, irremissibly.

And it is that nothing matters already, when is about to discover that extreme machinery  outpost so ingeniously contrived from depths of science, so many times ignored, by the same civilization that believe to have it everything.
Your  hope is a powerful light that descend at  dawn. It surrounds the temperate flute that it gives off the incense of an aseptic music.