The summer has unearthed the stiff
corpse of spring. Now the eye
will not capture the shadowy waves,
the violet linen in splendor. The straw
ignites, like a torch of lightning,
a tree burnt to a cinder. Vine shoots, sulfurous combat
of roots, murmurs of the earth. Oh heart of man,
winter refuge of warriors! Avid
summers and springs. Febrile
ardor of time scored by my past
to reveal to us the blazing black sun.
Guardians of a baleful game of chess,
of castles and paws, were we lurid
supernumeraries? Kingdom of silence, oaks,
autumn of being. And the metals, bloodless
beneath the stamp, the high dominion. Summer,
meek summer! The frozen sky
is transparency. Smooth, the sea reflects
the diamond, the buried moon,
the fief of the hidden sun. The words
conceal a sunken field, and writing
rends the body of the tiger. Written with fire
and written with light, on the lunar expanse,
the pasture of the dead. The lover descries,
beyond twisted appendages, darkness.
And the roots do not move. Like bodies,
they are nurtured on silence. Their country
of drought and sparks throws
open its eyes. The cry of the crow
bleeds in the violaceous sky. Wood and sapphire:
last glimmer, convulsive, of terrestrial light.