THE NEBULA IN THE MIRROR OF SLEEP
THE NEBULA IN THE MIRROR OF SLEEP
From the blue nebula I fell through bells of haze,
a stranger to the world's hour, through the river that dreams its own face.
Blind planets drifted in the milk of a living silence,
and the blood of light was growing inside ash-gray trees.
I dissolved into shadows with the scent of a shattered moon,
like liquid stained glass on a cathedral never begun.
Through the boundless void swam fish made of memory,
with scales from melted recollections and pollen of no category.
Your soul, a comet with eyelids of green velvet,
stirred its own echo through gardens no one ever loses.
And then I heard time blooming underneath the snow,
like a transparent lily teaching darkness how to see.
I undressed my being of its chimera bones,
and my heart drifted like a white and severe jellyfish.
In temples of melancholy, inverted springs were singing,
and clouds were sewing wings from abandoned glances.
Beneath the mantle of sadness, embroidered with salt galaxies,
our destiny was carrying a bell filled with distance.
I searched for you through the mineral sleep of blue stars,
where forests of angels grow on the skeletons of hermits.
But your face kept becoming smoke in mirrors without contour,
a god of black glass inside an uncertain empire.
Then forgetting — a flower with roots in the infinite —
slowly closed my gaze over everything I had crucified.
And I wandered through centuries like a flute without a song,
with the universe pressed against my chest, like an incantation.
The stars kept deep silence, in funereal levitations,
and shadows were giving birth to ships from sliding light.
I still carry in my blood that perfume of beginning,
when I lost myself in you and made myself lost inside myself.
And the nebula keeps growing in every thought that dies,
like a psychedelic garden of bells and distances.
Empty of life yet full of dream, I flow through cosmic echoes,
toward your unfathomable abyss, from one dusk into another.
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