At the time that the accursed die Poem by Carlos Obregón

(In jail)

At the time that the accursed die,
bones let loose a vast cry of ashes
while the easygoing and enormous wind wails
with a white hosanna of rebel doves.
Still the night, from the air only comes
a tired sound of ships that sail away
and homes where they love, a sound
that grows inward till it touches the soul.
The shadows turn round, I go inside myself,
I cross myself and raise the words.
In this night of embers in mourning, enough
is the pupil in the cell where I smoke
a pipe of satiety and desire
and then, to breathe a deep space,
to go out of time, to be under another sky.

Enough is the wind and to possess its origin.
Here, without anybody, within these walls.