THE GUST OF WIND AND THE MIRROR Poem by Orietta Lozano

I am it, the world,
the one of eclipses and brilliance,
the immense one, the small one.
The time has come
in which the carriage is guided,
in which the wall is demolished,
and on the water
where the ship sails,
the shipwrecked and the fish,
and on the Apocalypse
meandering
with its sharp teeth
of purple and clay,
the vision appears
like an immutable lull,
neither vanquisher nor vanquished,
a violet amalgam
of voices and gestures,
confusion of tongues and horizons,
tremor of the wood of flight,
the myrtle opens up
and anxiety floats,
the iron deep in the earth
becomes air in the transparent wings
of a bird that draws
the hallucinating landscape.

The horizon is so calm
when the vision spreads
as far as the golden sunsets,
without the trench of war,
without the edge of the axe or the rope.
without the cold of the knife,
and perches on the night,
the dance of the bees and the wolves,
the flesh of the moon
on the silver of the bonfire,
the descent of rain
on the field of jasmine and the birch,
the hallucinating music of the ship
when it sails toward the center
of the promised waters.

I, the world, afflicted and orphan,
set the clock on the penultimate war
and on the net of the words
that for an instant unties
the knot of the livid fabric.
Save the man,
the alchemy of the waters.
The impassive stone,
the mystery of the mirror and the pupil.
The singing that comes before
the coming of the fish and wine.

I am the invited one,
the stone in the crossroads.
The angry one, the one that bewilders,
the always dreamt-of
in the voice that does not redeem,
in the singing that tempts, confuses
and imperturbably executes
the cruel message of the trumpet
and the terrible order.
From one place to the other,
from the tent
in the cold encampment
to the dryness of the mud
mixed with the lament of a hyacinth,
everything moves with the strange hum
of the bees of war.
Soothe me, hush
my mouth that rages
with the annihilating foam
of the deafening noise,
stop the deeds
of my worn out blindness,
the pageant of my hunchback.
Let me sleep
in the depths of my dreams.
Guide me to the bluish steppes of the abyss,
to the observing crystal of the earth's eyes,
to the inscrutable bowels of the oasis,
of the volcano and the mirage.