First Opera of Words

Fr. III

It is a birth of dream, a child of our own possession

Everything, this sacrifice, not safe from your snares

And wires, in breach of the truth.

But who promises her bread, a crust

Whose ink in his hand, quenched the truth?

Drown the dream carefully

Leave nothing, forget her

Bequeath her nothing

But one day she will be returned to you

In this month of erasure...she resembles you

She was wrapped in rags.

While the rag world is the rag world

Yet perfumed cloth with oranges-flower scent

But then oily stain of bitterest olives

Then who is left to sweep up dead stones,

That penetrate white to her bone

Hold her close, until the rocks of her spine

Belong to your past.

Let my name be traveler, first rains

And you shall be brought down,

and shall speak out of the ground

A voice as low as dust

Shouting out of stone

We came to you for a little resurrection

When you needed complete obedience

The terrible repetitious history

We had none to give.

In the crush of law in the chain of time

We had nothing to obey.

I will find something in this stony rubbish,

The folded tent unbinding

(come inside and stay) and I will show you

What is left after the losses, the remains of life, we keep.