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On Water |
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1 |
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3 |
Time has elapsed
Over a time that tempts me,
Elapsing.
And, suspended, I hesitate
On dissolving in the thread
Of the drop that I am.
A time has truly elapsed… |
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On Trace |
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4 |
5 |
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11 |
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13 |
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The painter lost his
palette,
Went blind.
Clad himself with ground,
Used it subterraneously.
All laughed, blind.
It was then when he glimpsed… |
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On
Metal |
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14 |
15 |
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17 |
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18 |
19 |
20 |
21 |
At the hand of the old
alchemist
Metal was ransomed from defilement.
It is no longer metal, and defilement has left.
It does not glow, it has been transmuted.
A divine hand passed here,
Which, by not existing, is manifest. |
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The Color Red |
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22 |
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24 |
Manes, household gods,
reds
Found on the hidden wall.
Murmured sutras echo from interstices
Exalting the burning red.
Therein live warped voids,
And the universe rests beyond the seen. |
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On Written Time |
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28 |
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29 |
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31 |
32 |
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33 |
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In that time there
weren’t walls,
Just partitions, contiguity.
Nothing foretold that pure times
Would be followed by times of atrocity
And men would repeat
Cain and Abel.
The walls of utopia rose, we became walls.
Neither god nor archangels write anymore
In the most hermetic of writing.
Walls rose and perdition,
and the divine hands ... in interdiction. |
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António Conceição
Júnior |
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