Magdalena or The Adoration of the Blind
# Magdalena or The Adoration of the Blind
Among my exoduses there exists a woman nicknamed the refusal of open eyes,
on an international highway she sings in tongues that die before being spoken silently.
I put her to sleep with my gaze and pretend I don't see her, but my blindness sees her better,
huddled among busts of living marble, I descend from the truck of my thoughts together.
The phone booth rings in emptiness, I dial numbers that don't exist anywhere yet,
I apologize to no one and no one answers with your warm and hoarse voice I've met.
Magdalena wears scarves made of fog, and her short words are longer than silence clear,
we adore each other with bones soaked in memories, ancient adorations flow through our veins here.
It was perhaps the only possible happiness, and yet impossible in its yellow light gold,
something between lightning and melted ice, between breath and the roar dying in us cold.
Our eyes shining inside look inward, and what they see is a luminous darkness bright,
fingers well stretched on thighs, drawing maps toward places that have no name in sight.
We philosophize nonsense like wise men lost, wandering and blinded by our own hearts' headlights,
it couldn't be that the being wouldn't adore me, for adoration is the only truth that lies beautifully right.
I know a bird that puts its claw on our foreheads, carries us in its blind clarity so pure,
it adores us without seeing us and precisely because of that, its vision is clearer than light for sure.
What being would you be without this adoration, what full emptiness would you carry in your cold chest,
note in the notebook how our breathing covers the roars of the world that screams silently in rest.
The marble busts take root, we plant them on the left side of the highway to nowhere at all,
and they watch us with their white eyes, seeing everything we can never forget through the fall.
We sat like that with our bodies aligned, in a yellowish light that burned without fire's glow,
everything swayed calmly in the storm, and that calm was louder than thunder's blow.
My ferocious lucidity scared me, blinding me with its sharp knife-like clarity so keen,
Magdalena or the refusal of false consciousness, the adoration that exists only when unseen.
We lay down with our dry bones, soaked in the water of memory that burns like fire bright,
and the headlights blinded us seeing further, through us, through the highway, through exoduses without arrival's light.
A human being always passes alone forever, and loneliness itself makes it be with you true,
this adoration is the flesh of short words, spoken superbly in the language no one can construe.
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