Inmediaciones / Rafael Cadenas


Sleep has succumbed. At this instant there is nothing beyond those sleeping rooftops and the tenuous thread that brings them. Only this, what I look at, the other life.

Earth, so careless. I was nourished by the heat of tireless specters. But what surrounded me, the illegible, I had set it aside.

Reality, a crumb from your table is enough.

Ceding to an inertia, set aside with no pain, living milk, with its burning mouth contour, an open secret, a spring robbed for centuries.

Without it there is no flame. Without it each one of my steps brings me back. Without it the names take control of the world.

I am what I miss, I am my own nursery, I am the other side of myself. I don’t want to be repetition but novelty. The novelty of what I lack.

You ask for nothing. You know you’re complete. You know it with your skin. Not even your self is yours.

The soft gesture by which you live doesn’t betray like you the tenor of nature.

Stillness, gift for that unknown person who leans on the balcony in shirt-sleeves to watch the night over rooftops without resolving anything.

I have wanted to demolish myself; be an omission to be reborn.

I don’t erect myself from what I was. I set myself aside, but don’t stop carrying myself. I can do nothing.

I am memory, memory that recognizes itself. What else? Nothing, only this.

Floating from the still waters, from the wounding brushes, from beloved deafness. Alone, doubting my sense, to be what barely shines. What is so foolish.

Memorial (1977)

{ Rafael Cadenas, Obra entera, México DF: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2000 }

No comments: