Miguel Hernández

Womb: middle flesh of every little thing there's. everlasting cave, darkish, no matter if pink or blue. ultimate evening, in whose intensity one feels the roots’ voice, altitude’s breath. I push forward less than your dermis, and distance is blood. My physique pushes via in a thick constellation. The universe crowds jointly its errant echoes, there the place the historical past of humanity is written. taking a look at, seeing round the solitude, the mountain, the ocean, in the course of the window of a whole center, which grieved the day gone by at no longer being a horizon open to an international much less mutable and temporary. A stone and a baby develop for not anything. To dwell darkly, with out wings, for an afternoon. negative circumscribed pyramid of salt, with neither hearth nor coolness. No. return, existence. but whatever has shoved me desperately forward. I tumble during the sunrise of time, and the prior. i'm thrown from evening into the stinging gentle, i'm crying again—tiny, regressed. Imagination’s Tomb A mason wanted... Oh, he had guts. A mason sought after, stone on stone, wall after wall, to elevate a picture to the wind, to be the one that unleashes the long run. He sought after a constitution in a position to the lightest factor. He had guts. He particularly sought after it! Stones made up of feathers, partitions made from birds— an mind's eye lifted them into the midday sunlight. He laughed. labored. Sang. From his fingers, greater than thunder’s wing, partitions flew out like wingbeats. although wingbeats don’t final as lengthy. finally, stone used to be his agent. And a mountain, if it particularly strikes, is ready to fly. Stone by means of stone, it weighs down and crushes all it occupies, even an international of stay hope. A mason wanted... yet stone earns its grim brutal density in a moment. That guy tooled his personal penal complex. And in his paintings he and the wind have been thrown jointly. Ascension of the Broom topped with laurel, myrtle, and rose, the broom is heroic to people who face garbage. To unfastened every thing from flightless dirt it got here down, made from palm leaf and blue, from above. Its ardour, like a clumsy younger sword’s, by no means rests. skinny from nervousness, purity, sunlight, and braveness, a white lily that sweeps the very grave, it grows taller, hotter, purer with every one stroke. by no means! The broom shouldn't be crucified, simply because formative years passes alongside its skeleton, a lone flute, mute but resounding. it's a lone, elegant tongue, in music. And in its quickly breath, the quiet dirt flies off and ascends a palm tree, column towards sunrise. everlasting Darkness I who idea that mild used to be mine see myself thrown headlong into darkish. A sun ember, astral pleasure fiery with sea-foam and light-weight and hope. My blood is weightless, around, pomegranate: a torrent of craving with out border or penumbra. open air, mild is buried in gentle. in simple terms darkness offers me the feeling of sunshine. in basic terms darkness. Which leaves no hint. Or sky. Beings. Shapes. genuine our bodies within the flightless air, within the tree of very unlikely issues. furious frowns, grief’s passions. the teeth thirsting to show purple. The darkness of natural malice. our bodies like blind, plugged wells. no longer sufficient room. Laughter has sunk low. To fly excessive is most unlikely. My middle needs it might probably beat powerful adequate to dilate the constricting blackness.