THE CLAVICEMBALOS OF SILENCE

…all is very silent, and silence is good
only when it contains within it joy. Oth-
erwise, it frightens me…
LH

the sperm
of werewolves
tires
the helm
of the horizon
casts
lit flutes
amid
the bloodied frocks
hanging
on the thick branches
of the trees
smothers crows
in the mirrors
seeks the justice
and pity
of
children

I - however -
place red flowers
in her hair
I rise
stark naked
in
purple
gardens
I lose myself
in
dark caverns
that conceal
deep down
sewing machines
and fish
yellow ones
that talk
like flowers

and perhaps
I myself am now
that werewolf
of lightning flashes
the one so-called
- when darkness falls -
the "parenthesis man"
in the bellows
of the machination
in the
shrouds
of the procession
at time
of night
when
like tinder
a bird
expires

and so it falls
- drop by drop -
on the temples
of the despondent
clavicembalos
the couples
of the disappointed
and a
heavy cloud
of long
blonde hair
- with grey eyes -
floats noiselessly
in
narrow basements
where alone flourish
ports
and
eagles

and the silence is
fire
a rope-ladder
that they place
carefully
on the lips
and a white
horse
that is
a tree
close to the sea
and a red horse
like
a flag

and I race
upon the waters
- tirelessly -
with the lyrical
bicycle
with the helmet
of love

and when I arrive
at the last
rung
of this
dark
ladder
and I open
the door
of the room
only then do I realise
that the room
was
- is -
a large
garden
full of music
and paintings

- a room
full of sheets
cast
into the
garden -

sheets
some of which flapped
like flags
and like
glass panes
and others were
thrown down
like mirrors
and others
spoke
inarticulate words
like chimneys
and others covered
beds
like comets
others resembled
jugs
others were
like proboscises
and others
clothed
in coolness
and tragic cries
women
naked and fair

so that
I must
- perhaps a consummate need -
compare
the whole
situation
with a glass
where when
you put
your eye
you see
a deep
well
and in the
depths
a
bird

Translated by David Connolly