Because soul doesn’t live among things
but in the bold action of deciphering them,
I love the sister light that encourages my senses.
A thousand times I've wanted to find out who I am.
After so many names,
so much journey towards my own compass,
I could embrace the sand for centuries.
Watch the silence pass by and keep on holding it.
The truth is not in me, every second
is a fleeting attempt to catch the unattainable.
The truth is not in anyone, and it lies even further
from a king than from any beggar.
If someone is thinking about chasing it
he should not forget this:
fire has always been a harbinger of decline
as intensity the threshold of oblivion.
When my eyes turn back to the origin,
I ask one last gift.
I claim nothing else.
Put words into my grave.
The ones I said a thousand times
and the ones I would have desired to say at least once.
Keep words to my side.
The ones I used to love,
the ones I learned along the way,
the first ones I heard from the lips of my mother.
Wrap me with them without qualm,
fear not their weight.
But indulge the words with you.
Treat them with respect.
Put them on my heart.
The truth is not in anyone, but perhaps
words could engender it.
Maybe then he whom I told with you
and for whom with you became his custom,
would lie beside me tenderly,
together in the most sacred void,
when eternity takes our measure,
when eternity is pronounced with you.