I can hear the Clocks.
The one
laid
on the whitish slate of my palm
is a bizarre toy
made of insects
devouring Time.
And the other,
the Clock of the World
deafens my eardrums
with its fluid wings.
A prisoner
in the Memory of the Present,
I feel so strange,
a new-born child and dead
in the very same second
with the soft sun.
Time
smears the Clock nooks
and its condor wings
drag us
into the fluid.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem