Aún naciste niño pobre,
pero, a través de los años,
has desempeñado el papel
de un hombre sin doble.  

Y como el hijo que no olvida
Yo será tu segunda vida

Porque siento el fulgor
del amor, amor, amor...

1.

The reverberations of the dark blood
Steam and flood
The hollowed eyes;
And once mouthed, issue sighs
Which split the wood & shatter rock.

2.

The tremulous wringing of ageing hands
Shift hot sands
In ugly time;
And once marked, strike the chime
Which holds the hour & breaks the clock.

A lone, brooding shadow in blighted May,
He lifts his noble head against the day.

About which unkempt hair tumbles in curls.
(The large unblinking eyes glisten as pearls.)

In pastures bold and free, untouched by hands—
Here the dark horse, immovable, stands.

There is a kind of
silence
which is not
silence.

It is the gnashing
of teeth,
the obstructed
bowel movement.

Speech is an inducement
to polyphony.
But not the truth
behind a muffled cry.

In this, the shudder
of leaves
is more sincere
than all the wrack
heard at the county fair.