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!