IDA NADI
We wash our dead, our dead!
We make paper bags, alembics, sandpaper and words from their bones
The abstract reality of the walls - the chandelier of the sky - the sound reflected in the water
We mix our mortar like we are doing things bigger than our size
Sworn - promises were given - everything was irrationally dismissed
Above a fire - a swearing from the flames - a gothic wound - the embers of our chest
And our dead are the apocalypse scenario - the pendulum of time of our geography
Helpless puerperal - not a baby but fresh blood pouring from our womb
A raining cloud was hanging in the coffin - a lost continent in a steel box
Our dead were silent! The eye in the compass - the hunter in the cave - silent Ptolemy
A text in Sanskrit on the steles - the bat flower - dark history
And the screaming dead, Ida Nadi, Ida Nadi!
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