DWELLING PLACES III (18) Poem by António Franco Alexandre

to burn it all is a much simpler
process. I cover my head with ashes
(not stars) as if in warning.
Here we are at the end
of the world! It's a sizeable wall, a monument
to ancient wisdom,

and it runs inside us! Meanwhile we pour
ourselves out in all directions, and I know I'm forgetting
the essential thing, that vial of perfume
at day's end (or was it at night?) when
hands still made us close,

fire was an easy word,
and in us light alone lived.