ORIGINS Comments

I come from a childhood glorified by suns
and gold monstrances that made one dream
about a flowering heaven of virgins and angels
too remote to truly awaken desire.
I come from fresh and auroral mountains
protecting a river in their deep folds
— where an incomprehensible trip with no return is sung —
and nourishes woods in which the voice
of a child lost forever still drifts.
I come from conventual and somber houses
where chaste women retired from the world
prayed while they worked and warbling expected
to live in peace with heaven as a prize
for their trifling struggles and domestic cares.
Their sedative voices still resound
softening nightmares with humble words.
In that place men became poor with dignity
spoke ill of the political adversary and the Holy Trinity.
I dreamt of the far-off existence of the dead
clinging to the grate of a white cemetery
in full moon nights amongst the pines.
I believed in the relationship between gods and animals
between dead mothers and whispering trees.
I wanted to remain faithful to my childhood games
and to evade the duties of the caged adult
when nakedly exploring the labyrinth of the world
risking getting lost so I could find myself.
Because an extreme contradiction was my lot
it was up to me to contemplate what I loved from afar
and to suffer what I hated inside
and to fly up very high to know the abyss
and to plunge into the mud to catch a glimpse of the heights.
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