I write with words that have shade
I write with words that have shade but don’t give any shade
as soon as I begin this page insomnia keeps burning it
not words but what they consume is what keeps occupying
reality
the place without place
the agony the game the illusion of being in the world
the illusion is not what makes reality but rather the splintered gust—
simulacra where the ceremonies take place exchanges of brilliance
of emptiness of desire
there is no place anymore for writing because it is the place itself—
of what is erased
we don’t discover the world we describe it in its stubborn elusion
I won’t go back to the sea anymore but the sea lives in that absence
which is the sea when the word says it
and it spills onto the page like a hand
I will no longer be in the forest I will be in the page I write and I
glimpse the branches the wind passes
there will be no more summer only the sun that devours memory
and the great night comes with its sand that covers our eyes
and we can only read what was not written
{ Guillermo Sucre, La vastedad, Ciudad de México: Editorial Vuelta, 1988 }
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