I Was Born on a Day God Was Sick
(For Spanish translation click here)

I was born

on a day God was sick.

They all know I live,

that I’m bad, and they don’t know

about the December that follows from that January.

’Cause I was born

on a day God was sick.

There is an empty place

in my metaphysical shape

that no one can reach:

the cloister of silence

speaking with the muffled voice of its fire.

I was born

on a day God was sick.

Brother, listen to me, listen . . .

Oh, all right. Don’t worry, I won’t leave

without taking Decembers along,

without leaving Januaries behind.

I was born

on a day God was sick.

They all know I’m alive,

that I chew my food . . . And they don’t know

why in my verses creaks,

the dark uneasiness

of a coffin,

disentangled winds unscrewed from the Sphinx

inquisitive of the Desert.

Yes, they all know . . . And they don’t know

the light getting skinny,

and the Shadow is fat . . .

And they don’t know Mystery joins things together . . .

that he is hunchbacked,

musical, sad, standing a little way off and foretells

the dazzling progression from the limits to the Limits.

I was born

on a day God was sick.

Gravely.