XLI Poem by Lucía Estrada

I listen to a distant music, as of words that are going to be pronounced, the last in a
language in extinction. The air brings its chapels, isolated buildings, seeds of light in black
space. Inside its crystals, strong plants sing a silent song: it talks about lost gods, fabulous
birds, vegetable, edenic beings, in search of a time resembling emptiness. All will be said,
all will flow in the absence of mouths, all the words, those of the beginning, those of death;
they will go over the motionless, the consummate, they open the earth, they will separate
the waters, river against river, the fire will be surrounded, they will sweep our bones that
hide the first garden, they will bring down the sarcophagus of the ear and the tongue, and
still this voyage will be the beginning.
Queens of themselves, the words, we are only their mysterious passage, not the region that
waits for them.