Inevitably, something has fractured
and I renounce:

I renounce beer, captive lover of sublime moments.
I renounced my children, defiled in the womb by shadowed adulteresses.
I renounced my mother's love,
who flung herself into the gaping jaws of empire.

I renounce Zurita and Vallejo,
I renounce Rimbaud and Lorca.
I renounce the revolution—
a slaughterhouse of lambs bathed in epitaph sauce.

I renounce the symbolic burning of the body
because I renounce the body.
I renounce the beauty of being surrounded by lotuses
because for me, blood and bones.
Because for the disinherited, the roads
are mapped in filth.

I renounce your fingers tracing my spine
because I renounce my spine.
I renounce the madness of your ***
and the trampling that follows.

I renounce poetry,
for she renounces my wanton kiss.
I renounce metaphysics and catharsis.
I renounce the ceaseless spilling of ink.

I renounce eclipses.
I renounce dimming my eyes with tears
that do not belong to me,
that are not even mine.

I renounce returning,
for the path moves only forward.
I renounce leaving,
for I will sit beneath this vine—
and I will not eat its grapes,
and I will not drink its wine.

And when, a thousand years from now,
a monk arrives
and lays the three masks of the universe
before my bones,

I will renounce my bones—
and the universe
with its three masks.