The same Fates that wove
the sweet garlands of our joy,
forged our misfortune links
and squeezed the bitter juices of chance.
Ancient gods shooting in the dark
over the piñata of a world bending down or rising up
to the beat of the mallet and the laugh.
One day our dreams are towering, bright
of victories snatched from the fatuous destiny,
another the vertebra of life is cutting off
in a blink
upon a pupil widening, horrified
of itself.
Vain is the crying moistened
by unanswered questions.
Vain is the laughter ringing
its impudent, defiant rejoicing.
Where is the conquest after the spoliation
and emptiness?
Where the laments under the lintels
of a sky open to the stars?
In the same day the sun rises
and the night falls down upon the world.
No reasons, no causes,
no purpose, nor aims to be held.
Only myriads of an unaccountable time
settling us down into these arks of thought
and this very point where we throb.
What else?
To revive.
To burn.
To tremble.
To open the wings of unknown and sail
the seas of the uncertain
until the most recondite breath of life.
Facing the careless providence, to brandish the spears
of this irrefutable, unbroken freedom.
Forsaken to the whim of fortune,
to burn our vessels in its leading to no harbor at all.
Nothing binds us, nothing summons us.
Everything is about to be written upon our grave
and every word must be carved with the flame
of our unyielding will.
