Where Will I Stand with This Role of Mine

I have undressed from my intellect,
I’m taking refuge in the eaves of emotion, like a bird.
There is a chair and three tables here,
A time frightened by a virus,
It is passing into the night by scribbling the day.
My hand on my waist,
I’m becoming  too familiar with the absolute crack of the real.
On this stage made of a dream,
Where will I stand with this role of mine?

I’m loading meanings onto the sawdust of plainness,
Its horn is a male sheep, its breath is a child.
It makes fire jealous, which has passed from ordeal,
It is born of the dried truth in my umbilical cord.
Non-existence is on the slope of non-existence.
On this stage, the foreign man,
Where will I stand with this role of mine?

My line is clear, my emptiness too,
The soil mothers and the soil gods,
The man I made from innocent mud too,
I’m going to show him the face of the day.
On this stage where the night is stray,
Where will I stand with this role of mine?

I am Looking at the Moon

We and you who are pretending to live,
in the shadow of a breathing,
of palms with the ivy skirt. 
On hands and in languages, an emptiness,
shown as beautiful,
Ugliness, somehow, from concrete fabric,
I am looking at the moon.

At my room filled with solitude,
I’m tying the stray night to the dawn.
I have untied the knot of sadness,
the moon in the sky, how calm, how unhurried.
I am looking at the moon,
the elderly love on the flor is also looking at me.

Words, somehow, from diamond fabric;
Faces, somehow, from synthetic fabric.
I am looking at the moon.