I DREAMED
in the hour of the very last solitude
the digging of my grave
Carefully, little by little, I brought to light
the four objects that would accompany me to my final destiny
Attached to my body, two of them were African masks.
On top of my empty eyes two silver coins
with Attic owls awaited
for the lonely boatman of the lagoon left
When I thought I had finished digging myself
in the side wall of the hard drilled stone
in that dry old desert
a low doorway appeared leading to another deeper chamber
There they kept
those who buried me
my best treasures
Lined up on low shelves thousands of books
awaiting resurrection to be read again
One by one without rest without pause
But
I opened none of them
what's read is read
as what is loved remains loved
in a corner of the soul
that I did not excavate
For when I looked at myself with the critical eye of an archaeologist
I knew the limit of my science
that I would never reveal the extreme passion
that in life I felt for the soft skin of the goddesses
of the queens and princesses I loved
to the point of almost dying in every endeavour
Never would the spatula or the goniometer
would ever account for the sighs nor the words
That my dry ears heard in life
Nor will the paintbrush or the scalpel ever reconstruct
the agitated breathing after every adoration
of every kiss
of every tender word
that my tongue already parched
already dust of the desert
can never repeat
To excavate my dream
in that hour of fruitful solitude
showed me how happy
I was in life
and at the beginning of death
Then
with the passing of time
all is oblivion
and silence
even
for the dust
that once
was flesh
in love.
Translated from memories of a close future by Igor
