Intensity and Heights
(For Spanish translation click here)

I want to write but spume comes out of me,

I want to say so much, but stick in mire;

there’s no cipher spoken, not a sum,

there’s no pyramid written without sprouts.

I want to write, but feel myself puma;

I want laurels but I’m wreathed in garlic.

There’s no cough spoken that doesn’t arrive to the mist,

no god nor son of god without evolution.

Let’s go, then, therefore, and eat grass,

meat of weeping, fruit of moan,

our melancholic soul canned.

Let’s go! Let’s go! I’m wounded;

let’s go to drink what we’ve already drunk,

let’s go, raven, and impregnate your female jackdaw.

27 October 1937