The Night of the Gifts
The Night of the Gifts
I am speaking so…
More and more
between the walls.
And reflections
are swallowing us.
More and more
we meet faces
that resemble
another ones.
I’m crossing myself.
It passed
like a ship,
sewn
of the skin of dead people.
The fear stirs up
rage
or sameness
in the eyes.
But like a gate
that is creaking
and half-closing,
I am.
For the steps
of the warriors
and the wise men –
dust.
In Rome I’ll repeat to you
poems of Keats
(and of all of them)
on the water*.
The Night of Gifts
circles
opens.
*J. L. Borges
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