(andreas Vesalius, Padua,1538) Poem by Carlos Barbarito

He cuts into immobile matter,
useless echo of an ancient, arduous love
amid roots. He cuts
like one who feels pity
for a sick animal,
for a leaf that falls
as fall a star, innocence.
(In a distant mirror
is reflected, still,
the perfect nude) .
He cuts a pain that persists
after the cut, pervades the metal,
the hand, far beyond the room, the ground,
the stones, far beyond the world, the spheres
as improbable as pure.