Shall no one lower, by tear or reproach
this declaration of the mastery of God,
who, with magnificent irony
gave me at once, the books and the night.
Of this city of books he made owners
two lightless eyes, that can only
read in the libraries of dreams
the senseless paragraphs
his eagerness’ dawns grant. In vain, the day
lavishes its infinite books,
arduous like the arduous manuscripts
that perished in Alexandria.
From hunger and thirst (narrates a Greek story)
perishes, a king, among fountains and gardens;
and I wander aimlessly, through the confines
of this tall and deep blind library.
Encyclopedias, atlas, the East,
the West, centuries, dynasties,
symbols, cosmos and cosmogonies,
give in, the walls, but uselessly.
Slow, in my shadow, the hollow darkness
I explore, with my indecisive cane,
I, who imagined paradise
as some sort of library.
Something, that certainly can’t be named
as fate, rules these things;
Another has already received, in other blurry
evenings, the books and the shadows.
As I err through the slow galleries,
I tend to feel with vague and sacred horror,
that I’m another, the dead man, who’ll have taken
the same steps on the same day.
Which one of us writes this poem
of the plural I and the single shadow?
What is the word that names me,
if is indivisible and single the anathema?
Groussac or Borges, I gaze at this darling
world that distorts and fades
in a pale, vague ash
that quite resembles dreams and oblivion.
By Aaron Marco Arias