DENISEUS Comments

To Flora Martínez
While time moderates the tone of faces,
Oh, brother of fire, Oh Turner, you who dream
Under the tempest,
Let your spirit pour forth fire in our words.
The sun is a god, you said to the tough winters of England.
For centuries we were assiduous craftsmen of air,
For years the air was our kingdom.
Our memory has resisted so long
To invent the most beautiful dream in the world:
It tells the story of other beings who came first,
Radiant beings, of strange colors, eaters of algae,
Who came from the sky, or perhaps from the oracular
Brushes of Leonora Carrington.
Traveling through the interminable veins of time
We read red verses under a bronze mist,
Because those verses resembled her.
And the seas burning in her eternal substance without origin,
While we took shelter in a summer invented by trees
Devourers of birds,
With an ancient name night fell.
There we dreamt about the swamp, with its goblins of mire,
The color of its waters the same as that of the manatee's dream.
Trunks of trees looking like heads of reindeers spread horror
With their white screams in the shadows.
The sensitive alcohol gave the moon its roundness,
Little by little.
A ferrous noise was transformed in the horizon,
A luminous creaking grew on the canvas,
Drunk with rain, vapor and velocity.
One of us said:
It is the train of the mind. There she goes.
Already with the sunrise crammed with signs,
Saturated by beauty and candid splendor
We knew that love was in us,
That it was our incredible metaphor.
We found it in a gigantic city
Under the gold of the afternoon, near a garden
That was a paved dream of colors.
She, bewitched by the brushes,
Maiden of the train no one has seen,
Fond of the light of bonfires,
Her eyes full of colors to illumine a verse by Dante,
Her eyes drawing the amazement with sensual timidity.
Then she spoke disdainfully:

Why have they come to look for me now that with beautiful
Sparkles I have set up my fervent theater of colors
So that all shall dream about me?

Under that voice without mirrors many forgot their crowns.
We are sick with vertigo — I said to her —
We have in our body an abyss of light
From the bottom of which something marvelous stalks us
We shall die if our sunset is not touched by your sunrise.

That is why the deserts now roar,
That is why, on the Thames, she's asleep
In the sunset of your brushes,
And we still burn in the fire of her eyes.
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