Carlos Barbarito Biography

The dead are not like us. Suspended
in the midday still, they miss
satiety and thirst. They wane,
yet stay. Their eyes are set aside,
...

The rock grows like the plant grows,
it feels the cold, the heat, fear,
cries out, shouts, laughs.
What can we believe, what measurement can we use,
...

He cuts into immobile matter,
useless echo of an ancient, arduous love
amid roots. He cuts
like one who feels pity
...

It does not matter in what language one writes.
All language is foreign, incomprehensible.
Every word, as soon as pronounced,
flees far away, where nothing or nobody can reach it.
...

This is my life, the leaf seems to say
as it falls from the branch
or the stone that rolls down the hillside.
Not much: no faith
...