I Said Your Name

When, of everything — the night, the weeping, even death —
I banished the absurd, and even found meaning
in the days that one by one lost you from me,
I said your name.

To the refusal of day and night
in their too vertical, too precise definitions.
Because night, in your absence,
is as absurd as the word “goodbye”
which I refuse to utter in this flying fortress.

It is from the release of fear
that the first raindrops fall upon me,
sheltered from the blindness of days,
as if the heart grew silent only for a few minutes.

With dim eyes fixed on the giants that kiss the sky,
I dress them in concrete and clay.
Hiding myself, absent, on the faded edges of the world,
at the mercy of an untidy soul.

I divine the sweetness in your fertile gaze — yet neutral —
facing the veiled echoes of days
that slide down the mountain like liquid wax,
arm in arm with the deluge.
And I prophesy the pulse of memories,
poetically dissolved in the constant weight of exile
that always chains you beneath the skin.

In this solemn promise of wanting,
today I open my hands from your cold ones,
like two absent boats at the quay,
searching for you in foreign tides,
in an infinity of light.

Awaiting a premature morning
and receiving it with my heart laid bare
before the prelude of hours that will die slowly.
Of barefoot tears escaping from the eyes.

Hours yet to come that will never be fully ours.