LXXV
(For Spanish translation click here)

You are dead.

What a strange way to be dead. Anyone would say that

you are not. But, truthfully, you are dead.

You float just behind an aqueous membrane, hanging

from one zenith to the opposite, nothing, coming and

going from twilight to dawn, vibrating before the cithern

box of a wound that does not cause you pain. You say,

well, that life passes in a mirror and that you are the

original, you are the dead.

Meanwhile the waves go, meanwhile the wave comes, how

is one dead without being punished. Only when the waters

break on the beach, and they break again and again, then

you lose form and believing you are dying, you perceive

the sixth cord that now is not yours.

You are dead, without living before. Anyone would say that

not being now, you were in another time. But, truthfully

you are the skeleton of a life that never was. Sad destiny.

You have never been anything but dead. Like being a dry

leaf never having been green. Orphans of orphanages.

And, nevertheless, the dead are not, they cannot be

skeletons of a life never lived. They always die of life.

You are dead.