Above all you must know how often we have to abandon our bride and flee from affair to affair to the ends of the earth.
There where emptiness draws its violin bow over the horizon and a man is transformed into a bird and an angel into a precious stone.
The Eternal Father fashions darkness in his laboratory and strives to turn blind men deaf. He has one eye in his hand and knows not to whom he should give it. And in a jar he keeps an ear mating with an eye.
We are far off, at the end of all things, where a man hanging from a star by his feet swings head-down in space. The wind that bends the trees ruffles his hair.
Flying streams land in new forests where birds curse the appearance of so many useless flowers.
How right they are to insult the fluttering of these dark things.
If it were only a question of beheading the captain of the flowers and making the heart of superfluous feeling bleed, the heart full of secrets and shards of the universe.
The mouth of a man in love on a drum.
The breasts of the unforgettable girl nailed to a tree where they can be pecked by nightingales.
And the hero's statue at the Pole.
All must be destroyed, all of it, with bullet and blade.
Idols fight it out under water.
— Isolde, Isolde, how many kilometers separate us, how many affairs between you and me.
You well know that God pulls out the eyes of flowers, as he has a penchant for blindness.
And he transforms the spirit into a packet of quills and transforms brides seated on roses into pianola snakes, into snakes that are sister to the flute, the same flute that is kissed on snowy nights and that calls to them from afar.
But you don't know why the blackbird shreds the tree with its bloody talons.
And this is the mystery.
Forty days and forty nights clambering from branch to branch as in the days of the Flood. Forty days and forty nights of mystery among rocks and peaks.
I could fall from destiny to destiny, but I will always retain the memory of the sky.
Have you experienced visions from on high? Have you seen the heart of the light? At times I become a vast forest and march across worlds like an army.
Look at the entrance to the rivers.
Some evenings the sea can scarcely be my theatre.
The street of dreams has no trees, nor a woman crucified in a flower, nor a ship sailing the pages of the sea.
The street of dreams has an enormous navel from which a bottle protrudes. Inside the bottle there is a dead bishop who changes color whenever the bottle moves.