with a wax masque of a Summer rain,
the love of fathers is hell
on a st(ake)rand!
You, with your limb more stiff
than the dogmas of Lucifer.
Who have you forgot to permeate:
The Woman: who is a river
(for she flowed to you)
The Daughter: who is volcanine
( for she burned for you)
The Earth – which swallows you
You, who are present but not present,
Hate has a heart!
The green heart of shot Lorca
and wrath of God!
He, alike you:
Does not love!
Does not forgive!
Does not kiss!
To gift the legal age
he rapes the Vestales
You growl too loud,
I know you encircle girls before the door.
I know you flow down their thighs sweaty.
Like unborn milk flows from me to you.
Like chrome sand flows from my eyes instead of tears.
Like thorns grow within my body and not children.
You, who are a corpse in formalin,
the mute vocalist of the torn wire,
the chalice of poison before sleep.
My shadow takes you off the wall,
a wingless bird in the darkness of the room,
will skin the marble face and his smile of a victor!
Even hope at times answers to the mute.
The dug away umbra from the extinguished lantern.
Oh, Burn! Burn!
Flame Pompeii, die in anguish!
May the abandoned children clap their hands!
May the thrilled audience scream of laughter!
Like I . . .
Like I who screamed
When Creator waded over me with words:
Maasalam*, my Child!
*ma’a salama good-bye in Arabic