As though the solitude of men and of the temple
were some day to bring days of celebration or harmony,
as though this growing drizzle were a flood
that creeps inside with fear,
as a voice that wishes us to be reject and scandal,
the plundering angel comes: swift, with wings of fire setting everything ablaze with fury,
reveals the soul of the books,
splits space wounded with yellows and blues and flames,
burns desire when it issues from the lips of desire
and marches with the sound of a storm of pearls
while the temple collapses.
All that is left to us is a piercing pain
on the altar of memory.