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Silence has come in wings of birds departed,
Crestfallen moments among the naked trees
From whence took flight the quivering flock I see
Shimmer in the horizon like those silver-gilded
Leaves
that rustled past my window
and stole my song from
me.
St. Claire Beach, 1970
* * *
Rabbit footprints on the snow
Or pheasants´ gently patterned
Crisscross
Blue shadows of spruce and oak
Upon the steady brightness
Of winter’s field.
Detroit, Dec. ’74
* * *
From French original:
All things shrouded in their beatitude,
blue-hued equanimity,
naked to the perfectly limpid naked-
ness of the sky…
Light of November that bathes
the stripped bodies of the trees,
slashed through and through by their branches –
crystalline angularities where
amiably repose
the infinite transparencies of space.
(Detroit, Nov. 1974, published in Spectra, Louisiana State Un., Shreveport, 1981, student poetry collection for 1980-81) )
* * *
Ni mi casa es ya mi casa (Lorca)
And then our days were gone in the same fashion
that family albums grow unreal
to their last detail…
I move through rooms empty of the present,
in which each object speaks its absence and nostalgia
for a time when they somehow counted for some thing –
points of reference towards a future now discarded
beckoning the fate of so many bushels of berries
picked
with abandoned industry
by idle children seeking to fill their
hours.
Possessions have a knack for staring at us blankly from the
past, carving mazes better filled with sand…
No wall-washing or incense burning will suffice, Ulysses,
once you see: the greatest change of all took place in
you… And a journey of twenty years is but a prelude
when constant exile from ourselves becomes our way.
Detroit, June, 1975 (In Spectra, 1981)
Winter Sun, Florida (translated from the Spanish)
Mother of pearl surfaces against
the clear sky violently blue
more deeply hued there where
the sharply pointed palm pierces
infinitely
to my very center.
The sky never says a thing.
The sky here contemplates itself in my gaze
and spirits me away, very far away
right to where I´m sitting.
Gently they intertwine
As she moves:
Drinking the sky
Filtering the breeze
Setting birds free
Lusting herself complete
Against the morning
Clear and soft.
All things fall unto themselves suddenly.
South Florida, l975 (Spectra, LSU-Shreveport, Spring 1980)
PAIN TODAY
Pain today edges its way more softly than
before, water closing in upon the knee on a
late summer day at ebb tide.
Pain today wears gypsy ribbons and a solar
ring and murmurs laughter round my toes with
the frenzied motion of the hummingbird.
Pain today is out of season and, because,
in this garden where we have come to still our
inhibitions, only color, scent, sound and touch
prevail –there is a redoubled effort not to
think of you, pain, closing in with your
oyster grip upon our infinite
thumbs.
Valle de Bravo, Mexico, May, 1977 (Spectra , Spring, 1980, LSU-Shreveport, Louisiana.)
* * *
T0 A CHILD WITH CHICKEN POX
On the photograph you appear
wincing in the bright Havana sun
wavy locks gold streaked and lips drooling,
as luscious then (some said: “too gross”) and avid as ever
--we now know: for the kisses our father withheld because of your
‘’unfinished’’ sex –or so the story goes-- though, perhaps,
the gaping expression was not so much that day for want of
kisses, or in admiration of the withered azalea in your hand,
but for the congested adenoids that plague
our breed…
It was just about then that we all succumbed to a wave of
Varicelli…Mother’s case so fiercely virulent it left marks
on her face for years to come, as in our souls…(Father was away;
She got her sixth abortion; you shared a room with grandmother
And cried alone, while I searched for a secret place to
bury an old pocket knife of mine the distraught woman had suddenly
remembered one mirror-shattered night and which,
In our abandoned yard, began to carve
the slow, deep trenches of all my future
solitudes…).
A quarter of a century has passed!
And, although our skin’s scars long have cleared,
the subtle, nervous quiver round your mouth, the rippled
voice of deep resentment and mistrust
contaminates our sphere.
Peering at your infant face in black and white, I catch
a glimpse of that still pristine moment in your mind
when you pondered the configurations of a pink azalea—
that irretrievable time before all the turbulence of our later
years, the radical estrangement that’s our fate.
Varicelli strike again…And, now, while my offspring
Parade through the house with their share of the ageless
Scourge, performing ancient rites: the boy, anxious
To get back to school, mindful of his routines, settled
In his ways –a kind-mean joyful spirit
Captivated by the excrescences of Middle-American vapidness;
The little girl, all blue-green eyes of adoration trailing after
Him, getting into his things,
The teasing, and pulling, and tearing that goes on a-
midst cries, and tears, and laughter –
Pampered children of an affluent divorce (these days such
Things are easier, we are confidently told)—
I watch their barely blemished faces and carefree limbs
Embrace the sun
Awed by the efficient inscrutability
Of their innocent
Commerce.
Detroit, Michigan, 1975
(In Spectra magazine, LSU-Shreveport, La., Spring, 1980.)
* * *
To a young flower merchant from Rochester, Michigan:
On Saturdays you arrive at dawn
Rainbow struck your eyes the truck
With transient wares to sparkle my
Garden days
And a warm hand that I
Remember
´round my midriff
all week long…
I like it
This way, you with your flowers
And I with my song
Freely, joyfully moving
Through the lively commerce of
The market place –
Two radiant capsules
briefly shooting through the solemn
Night of our separate yet
kindred,
sometimes mutual,
Eternities…
Palmer Woods, Detroit, 1975
Cómo todo palpita, cómo todo está vivo
[How everything throbs, how everything is alive.]
How everything throbs with the thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud
of the Blood of the Lord –coming out into the Open after hiding for so long:
Life´s shining in my Eyes the better to see this Beauty now, humming to me,
from the Waterfall!
It rains and…
A symphonic silence all wrapped up in summer green
Descends from Heaven!
Friends arrive with their songs to quench the thirst that only Silence
shared in Harmony can still. This truth that they have learned in prayer
feeds on Itself: It leads them to the fresh stream of our eternal source. And,
As they enter unto the threshold of your Presence in this world, their
Bodies dash forward, propelled by the flight of the
Soul rushing after its own kind of nectar…
Magnetized by this silence, stilled
Within your precinct of Love, we stay,
Beyond memories, in the incarnate Memory of
The All…lost to time, lost to those who
Stay outside, not daring to go in --not daring yet,
Shyly seeking, one can feel,
timidly basking in the glow
of our mounting
ever growing
Ecstasy!
¡Cómo todo está triste, cómo todo está lejos
cuando el alma se encierra y no atiende a su
queja!
[How sad, how distant everything is
when the soul closes up and does not tend to its
plight!]
* * *
I renew myself in the other’s eyes whose
Gaze races to uncover my yet unspoken secrets to
Myself, that other, spying on us from the side
With a lateral vision that mocks our self-
Complacency, the I-know-it-all pose and the
Humble-me-pose. I renew myself in an old friend-
ship which bestows on this ever expanding present
The wonder of the distance we have come: and some
Distance we have come since those days when we feared
We were getting old (though ´tis true we were, if only for the
First time, we now know). And the closer home we get,
How much shorter the distance separating
Every new birth from its inherent death,
Every death from all the rebirths of
our incessant becoming in the
Now:
…Transient and eternal,
“every rose is the same rose”
another poet said. And every lover´s
parted lips restores
the original enigma,
unclenches
the tender, moist vibration of an ancient rapture
we welcome with awe and gratitude,
as we expertly restore our most alluring pose,
charming to death the charmer
of our ancestral
lusts.
[English fragment of El seno infinito/The infinite womb. Date, place unrecorded.]
At the Tuileries
[From the French original, October, 1965; transcribed Nov. 2002.]
That toy cruiser with its serene white sail
Is my soul as it wanders to and fro—
The breeze that cradles it, your breath—
The waves, our sighs—
The winged reflection gliding through the waves—
Your own twin soul to mine held close.
It pursues and directs
My desires, my song:
The two go on to merge
In the confines of your gaze.
* * *
(To Mrs. Denine, the other America; from the Spanish original.)
Mr. Amerika on his Bicentennial:
´´We hate Fidel Castro and anybody who thinks he´s any
good…´´
The eyes of repression are the children of wrath:
They do not see, not even look.
Today, they dressed themselves against me,
Pointing their aggressive banners
(red, white, and blue)
With legendary violence, and I felt…
Fear, pain, hunger, distress, cold – I mean to say,
Exile…and I had to give up ground and grant them
The opaque margin where their introverted blindness
unfolds unto itself.
How to speak to those who never felt
The tender hand of compassion quiver over their wounded
Sex. How to tell them of the deep born clamor that sustains
Us –the soft, restless, persistent rumor of
Our Hope.
Lawrence, Kansas, 1976
[In retrospect, Mr. Amerika was right; but, as always happens with the “right,” mostly for all of the wrong reasons…]
Meeting
[From the 1979 French original.]
Meeting of the Night of Nights,
Our days beneath the hollyhock,
The greenness of tepid waters gliding a-
Long bodies happily slumbering…
We soak our fingertips in the moss of limpid
Streams.
A day will come from the
Depths of the white sea
To cover our footsteps with flowers of black
Sand
At the wedding of Alps that forget themselves in
The distance.
Like your fever, victorious after the snowdrifts
Of a fall without return,
You have pulled through, beyond those porticos
Illumined by another sun,
By a heavenly body more durable than the one
Which the night betrayed a thousand times:
A star made to brighten that same night thrown as-
tride, chased back to the cradle of Love without
limit :
At the edge of that unnamable blaze,
Without beginning, without end…
The peaceful pleasure of lasting.*
[*counterpointing René Char´s dur désir de durer…]
* * *
[Bilingual English/Spanish]
Midnight rose (nocturno)…
(Or was it a sunflower, that time, in Kansas?)
‘midst the roses of the night
the midnight rose exhales
its misty sigh
performs
the miraculous act, the sacramental
rite of the great union –more and more
the grand Re-union—
glowing,
the petal of desire
bursting,
the unlocked door
your simple life
the night begging and
forcing its song betwixt
our thighs
cradling
us back to our own self
beyond ourselves
tú ya no tú [you no longer you]
yo ya no yo I no longer I
Seremos. will be]
(...in the burning, misty splendor
of the night…)
( S I L E N C I O ; S I L E N C E)
Ahí donde rompe el día con la noche,
El sueño levanta su vuelo sereno,
El sueño se extiende
Imperceptiblemente
hasta cubrir el horizonte entero:
Relámpago, instante
Inexhausto y breve,
Y el mundo se embellece
Y llueve el cielo desde nuestra entraña
Resplandeciente.
[There where the day breaks away from the night,
The dream picks up its serene flight,
The dream spreads out
Imperceptibly
Blotting out the entire horizon.
Lightning, an instant without
Ending and ever so brief.
And the world beautifully alights
As heaven pours down from our
Luminescent inner side.]
^ ^
^
El autor es sólo uno,
El mismo a través de todos.
Todas las voces forman una
Sola voz aquí en mi pecho forman
Un solo pecho un solo palpitar
Que late su canción de pan y viento.
Bendición del nocturno pasajero
Que contagia a los que alcanza su sonrisa
De piedad esperanzada: ¡Buenas noticias,
Caballero, hermanos, señora esclava, futuros
Escogidos de la noche dorada por una larga
Mirada enamorada! Bendición del conmovido,
Del que llora. Bendición del que no llora
Y sonríe su pesar y reclama su alegría
Entre las rosas
Entre rosas de azorada media-
Noche sonrosada...
El autor es sólo uno,
El mismo a través de todos.
[All the voices form one single
Voice here in my chest form
A single chest a single thud
That beats its song of bread and wind.
Blessings from the fleeting night song
with its contagious smile of hopeful piety: “¡Good
tidings,” gentle-man, brother, enslaved madame, future
chosen ones of the golden night captured in the web
of a single, long enamored gaze. Blessings from those
who are deeply touched, from those who cry. Blessings
from those who do not cry and who smile their woes
and reclaim their joy amidst the roses.
Amidst roses that glow
with their astounded midnight blush…
The Midnight rose
Exhales its mystic sigh:
Performs its lunar rites
Proclaims the sun…
(Hush…)
(in the burning, misty splendor of the night)
…] the Silence of our hands […
) the midnight rose (
Or was it a Sunflower, that time in
Kansas?
In memory of Georgia O´Keefe, part of that wider circle which opens
Infinitely the rose…(June, 1979)
“Music Pink and Blue I” (1919)
(Transposition from music, to painting, to poem as music, as painting…)
Pelvic marble or shoulder blade
portico to the Azure
marvel of the light
ruffled petal of a Virgin Breast
or Mary´s Womb Opening
pure Heaven to de-
Light !
Lawrence, Kansas, 1979
Translated from the Spanish:
Gnostic Prayer
If it turns out that I do not die in Paris with the drizzle, some
Thursday, I will die in Huaútla on a Sunday of Resurrection.*
I will die with my face toward the open sky while the rain falls
Quick-silver on my breasts. Later I will listen to its rhythmic
language growing and softening while I sleep. Midst dreams,
I will salute Ché, Vallejo, and a few other members of my private
Epic, until at last I hear your same voice of old,
Calling me.
I´ll awaken without fear, feeling your sonorous quiet song
stir throughout my body no-longer-my-body.
I will plunge into your limitless gaze and the rain will fall,
warm as your living face of serene night over my sorrows.
You will bathe me in almond semen, sweet council of your
Womb, where all things graze tranquilly in silence,
Haven of delight without memories or complaints,
Most Loving Verb of the sweetest of all memories, at last,
Restored.
(Shreveport, La., Jan., 1979)
November 7, 1977
What am I to do now with this love
Old vintage blood draining me from myself,
Unbearable longing for death
What to do if not seek to give it form in a few
Verses
To fix, preserve, stop what overflows with
Words
as old as love as old as blood as old as death
as old as grief and, to which, at last:
No new blood, no new grief, no new love, now new
Death lends new life --used-up sutures from
Multiple transplants.
[Spanish original:]
qué hacerme ahora con este amor
sangre añeja derramándome
insoportable espera de la muerte
qué hacer sino buscar darle forma en unos
versos
fijar preservar detener lo que se vierte en
palabras
viejas como el amor como la sangre como la
muerte como el dolor y que ya
ni
nueva sangre ni nuevo dolor, ni nuevo amor, ni
nueva muerte renuevan : mechas gastadas por tan
repetidos trasplantes del corazón.
---------------------------------
The cities left behind return to haunt our dreams.
At night their bells ring clearly still.
The old Habana buses ready to expire at every corner
Heave and sigh under the load, blessing you with
Farts while trolley cars cantankerously shriek
At every stop and umpteen whistles blow.
The sirens, so often the sirens wailing in the middle of the
Afternoon.
It´s three p.m., Guantanamera time:
The passion crime during the siesta hour.
Siesta time.
Oh, wonder of rustling sheets cool against languid limbs,
Faint from midday loving. The fruit is pulpy, incarnadine,
Beneath the dazzling pearled light of tropical leaves
--succulent lobster of the trees.
Shreveport, La, 1978
A parody in praise of Wallace Stevens:
Did Erasmus sit or stand
While he pondered the entrap-
ments of our folly,
The original mind,
The cursus of human
(not divine) thought.
Such minor detail could entail drastic changes in
one´s tale. Alas!
How´s the poet to tell the tale con-
necting the position of a singular
Tail in Rhotterdam five hundred years
Ago, or so, with what the poor erudite
Bastard told his then contemporaries,
And our own, regarding the humaine
Condition,
And the madness of such thoughts as led Mon-
taigne reasonably to reason that VIVRE is
(or ought to be)
an apprenticeship of MORT…
V de B, 4/22/81
* * *
Happiness is a dull affair
Which is probably the reason why
Thinking John and ardent Mary
(oops!…better: brainy Mary,
horny John) seem incapable of it
for very long:
Boredom´s worse than misery!
V de B, 4/25/81
* * *
´´The morality of the poet´s radiant and productive atmosphere is the morality of the right sensation.´´
(Wallace Stevens)
A pensive thought thinking itself betwixt
Other thoughts, other memories
--strands of sensations, circumlocutions:
a thought clamoring to communicate itself,
to understand itself --a warmth in the
periphery of the navel´s gorge: a sen-
sation (Zen-session) : the right sensation.
It is a test of the right sensation that it gives
Way to an acceptance of the silence that
Sustains everything, a glowing or a basking in
The continuous flow.
When the right zen-
sation is struck, the proper chord of
sentiment and the proper chord of intellect
intertwine to dance the Supreme Dance:
Into the meat of time, accepting the non
sequitur --a repetition of old soliloquies.
Valle de Bravo, Nov. 20, 1982
* * *
Study for a Poem
The Poet, overwhelmed by a sense of
Isolation at the Heights, contemplated
His creation and decried: “Oh! But who
Will ever risk financing such a Mammoth
Proustian work!”
“Let the Depths carry their weight over
facility! One can not betray one's origin
in the Dream. Let the Dream re-Realize your
self within the Self of selves, one´s own ever-
lasting glory!"
“So, to put it bluntly,” the practical/creative side
declared: “Abandon so many ‘stories’ and let the
Essence glow. Resort to the en/lightening (I mean
Brief) encounters of the Poem… Of poems which
Knit goblins, which form icons of a transcendent
Truth, uniting all opposites:
Time resounding with its echoes in such mirrors as
Memory can recover, passing and
Returning, distilling that dreamlike sense of
Eternity that is the poet´s task!
(Could also be titled “The Poet´s Craft.”)
January 1985, V de B
* * *
So what if another day has gone by
Not fully in Heaven yet
Not so far removed from it.
Another day equally as much not too far
From Hell yet, all and still,
Quite splendid. One day more to utter the
Enigmas, declare the year to be definitive,
Propose a halt to all hostilities, denounce
the Madness. A day from which to quietly
implore the Graces, follow the latest
omen with an impenitent determination--
lest the world die or, at least, your
world: not the world we´re coming from but
the one after --the one to save before it´s born,
the one to give birth to, even if you must
fold it away, once again, between two
blinks.
A day easy to lull towards the incandescence of the
Lucid dream
And that foaming, green wave all wrapped up in
Azure, advancing --slowly but surely--
To meet your ever more placid
Expectancy.
V. de B., Feb 24, 1986
* * *
Gnostic prayer (translated from the Spanish):
If it turns out I do not die in Paris with the rain,
some Thursday, I will die in Huaútla on a Sunday of
Resurrection. I will die with my face towards the open
Skies, and the rain will be quick silver on my breasts.
Later, I will hear its rhythmic language grow and soften
While I sleep. Midst dreams I will salute Ché, Vallejo, and
A few other member of my private epic, until at last I hear
Your voice of old calling to me.
I´ll awaken without fear,
Your sonorous quiet song stirring throughout my body
No-longer-my-body.
I will plunge into your limitless gaze
And the rain will fall warm as your living face of serene night
Over my sorrows. You will bathe me in almond semen,
sweet counsel of your womb where all things graze quietly and
in Silence --haven of Delight without regret or complaint,
Most loving verb of the sweetest of all memories now
Restored.
Shreveport, La., (Spanish original, 1/20/79)
* * *
“A man still…” (from the Spanish “…un hombre todavía…”)
One night already in quest of day I found you
contemplating the fullness of the moon
caught in our window. Dawn upon your illumined body
reached out to me. “Oh, your name should have been
Encarnación!” Do I ever remember. That is how you became
the first and last man ever to know how to call me
by my name! That is how you christened me some very early
morn, in a City that once upon a time was called Tenochtitlan,
even if it could just as well have been called Jerusalem,
or Sancti--Spiritus. Also Sodom. Also Carthage. A city that
awakens me now alarmed with you in the distance and the sky
(once again!) tainted the hue of all hells broken loose. A hissing
that makes you feel you want to piss announces that, perhaps,
the tide is here once more that uproots everything.
And the Apocalypse,
Again, like in those days we spent stretched along the Appian
Way -or at Dachau, back in the forties (after the most famous of
all Crucifixions, where we were also present…). Only, now, we
are no longer thousands or millions but billions we are, will be --
though, perhaps, in this sort of thing numbers scarcely matter:
Seeing that each death is all the others, and vice-versa…
(The problem, most likely, is to be found in the pronouns…)
. . .But, in the afternoon, the sky
stretches gently across the Park: Muted filtering of light through
leafy surfaces with boys and girls and parents and cousins and
brothers, like a fast moving tape of all ages, of all time.
Like a resurgence of hope!
The great family of the world inhabits this park!
How to prevent your destruction.
Or that you should ever run dry? Park,
Where the same moon of ancient plays her siren ´s song.
Even when you are no longer the same park.
But, might you not bask in the same Moon of old, almost?
Almost quite the same Sun and, even to say,
identical!
But, when I say “you” --to whom of all is it that I speak?
The lover´s always been the same (that is, if he has known
To be a Lover:
And ´tis the reason why this “you” of Love
Turns out to be so slippery. Why it escapes
And reappears like a thread, always without
Losing track of its scheme…)
My entire package, I know, is knit through and through
With a single yarn. Which is why my Lover always says the same
Things, no matter what language he speak, and only the times
and places change.
And that is why, once again,
We are here and still, since forever, or nearly
Forever: So that the magic will not stop!
So that the ship won´t sink!
. . .And, how convenient, finally,
that no more than anyone else you won´t read the newspapers:
That, for you, “everything is and will always be the same old
story (even though, truth be told, things had never been quite so
bad)”.
At least, you´ll be able to sleep in peace
Upon those wisely built foundations: Dream yourself hunting
Ama/zones in a jungle docile only to that iron you brandish
So well --quite ready to leap from bed feeling ever more like a
Lion, and, after a well aimed embrace,
to ruminate the kitchen, eat to your heart´s content,
go out and earn your day! Return like nothing´s happening,
even when your pocket´s come home empty,
alleging: “Don’t worry: Tomorrow we’ll have pheasant!”
That, so played, is like a man, still…
Parque de México, 21 November, 1985
* * *
ODE TO OCTOBER (English original)
October ready to be plucked,
brimming in its Flower –Retriever
of all the shadows… What theme shall
strike the hour; what stilled memory
Return to encompass the everlasting moment.
And what gentle breeze, shrouded in light
shall set the course—Tower to
tower, zenith through zenith, till
The highest peak is won that crowns
The silent homeward journey
Bound for Glory!
October, redeemer of all the senses…
The Glory of October, yes! For… In what latitude
Does it fail to marry heat to cold in such fair-minded
Fashion: whether in Michigan or in Michoacán –in Havana or
In Sewanee, Tennessee: October reigns Supreme!
And that ripe age of the Apple which in cider sizzles
Turns October’s timely blend of green and rust,
Into a heady, savory, heartfelt matter –Yea!
October is Rotund,
Full, like some nude by Maillot… (All OO OO OO’s:
La donna ben bragatta! The well-stacked, pantsy woman
--with powerful breasts, ma’, and loads of hip: Rounded off
and ready to die for her babes!)
October at last exudes the
Distillation of all of Summer’s slow burning ardour:
The last birth before winter´s dreams begin to gather in the
Soil, and all the heavy rains are most definitely gone!
It is… a second April that arrives on the scene,
Like some second Coming:
Sweeter. Tarter.
Juicer (and Bluer, and Greener, and redder and
Whiter…).
Sometimes, even, barely cruel!
Valle de Bravo, Mexico, eighties…
* * *
In this house you're in a ship that is
sailing through mid-air:
A ship whose tall, long ocean-beak
draws the nectar of the skies and swells-up
one great-blue Heaven.
This house sails impudently through
astounding seas, takes flight as it spreads
its Holy Host wings.
(This house has
Wings!)
Ocean-soil and sun-bound
Sail: It chimes at times, you'd say,
like some kind of an Awakening.
A barge of fools, perhaps, but also
a harbored miracle resting in clear
space: By sight and sound alone
sustained.
(Oh, to see the
Radiance filter!)
Who cares, then, if this lofty
Vessel gets you nowhere --anchored,
as it is, in no-time and left in
Memory as pure grace:
A serene voyage from oneself
back to oneself (and, please note, the
disagreement is not between "me" and
"I" but only between my “self” and words).
Valle de Bravo, eighties… original English; Spanish translation follows…
En esta casa viajas en un crucero
que se mueve por los cielos:
Una barca cuyo alargado pico
sorbe el néctar de los cielos y hace
henchirse el firmamento.
Esta casa surca atrevida por insó-
litos mares y despliega sus alas de
Espíritu Santo.
¡Esta casa tiene
Alas!)
Terruño de mar y vela que apunta
al Sol: Repica, de pronto, como un nuevo
Amanecer. Remolque de locos, quizá, pero
no menos, un milagro recibido y que reposa
en el nítido esplendor: Con sólo la vista y el
sonido por sostén.
(¡Ay, lo que es ver
a esa Radiante claridad caer!)
Qué más da, pues, si tan sublime
Barca no te lleva a ningún lado –anclada,
como está, fuera del tiempo y dada a la
Memoria cual gracia sin par:
Un sereno regreso de uno
Mismo hacia sí mismo (y, quisiera hacer notar:
el desacuerdo no está entre mi “yo” y
mi “ser” sino, más bien, entre mi ser y las
palabras.)