To Berthe Patterson, Noam Chomsky, Valeria Wasserman-Chomsky, Francisco Gomes de Matos, Margarita Wallander- Marchus,    Jay Marchus, Margarita Ramirez, Francisca Gaspar Lorenzo, Arthur Jones, Peter and Mary Chilver, Paige Churchman and Rodolfo Reyes

 

And it was at that moment … poetry shined

illuminating me. I don't fathom. I don't fathom where

it came from, from summer or a lake.

No, they weren't images, they were not

signs, nor voices, nor words, nor silence,

but from a highway, it called me,

from the leaves of the twilight,

suddenly among the others from volcanic smoke,

or returning blissfully,

where it was with face,

and it caressed me.

 

I don't fathom what to tell, my mouth

had no revelation

of names,

my eyes were closed,

something murmured in my soul,

ecstasy or gleaming wings,

and I found my own way,

decoding that refulgence.

And I wrote it first, fertile line,

fertile without substance, pure

absurdity,

pure wisdom

of one who fathoms nothing

and at once I saw

the blue firmament

untied

and uncovered,

planets

palpitating paradises,

the darkness punctured,

pierced

with arrows, lances, daggers, fires, and flowers,

the embracing twilight.

 

And, I flickering being,

drunk with the golden starry

hollowness,

similarity, images of,

myself, so divine,

perceived myself a pure piece

of the abyss,

I flew with the stars.

My heart set loose with the breeze.

 

 

Central Luzon, Philippines,

December 12th, 2018