"The interior look unfolds and a world of dizzines and flame borns under the front of the one who dreams:
Blue suns, green swirls, peaks of light that
open stars as grenades,
lone sunflower, eye of gold rotating in the center
of a calcinated plain,
sound crystal forests, forests of echoes and
answers and waves, dialogue of transparencies,
¡wind, gallop of water among the unending walls of a jet throat,
horse, comet, rocket that is nailed just in the heart of the night, pens, spouts, feathers, sudden flourish of the torches, candles, wings, invasion of the white, birds from the islands singing under the front of the one who dreams!
I opened the eyes, I raised them to the sky and I saw how the night was covered by stars.
¡Alive islands, Bracelets of flaming islands, ardent stones, breathing, clusters of stones Alive,
How much fountain, what clarities, what long hairs on a dark back,
how much river up there, and that remote sound of water near the fire, of light against the shadow!
Harps, gardens of harps.
But by my side there was nobody only the plain:
cactus, desert spikes, enormous stones that explode under the sun.
The cricket was not singing,
there was a vague smell of lime and burned seeds,the streets of the village were dry streams and the air would have broken itself in a thousand pieces if someone would have shouted: ¿Who lives?
Peeled hills, cold volcanoe, stone and breathlessness under so much splendor, drought, flavor of dust,barefoot rumor on the dust, and the raintree in the middle of the plain as a petrified spout!
Tell me, drought, tell me, burned land, land of grinded bones, tell me, agonic moon,
¿There's no water, there's only blood, there's only dust, only footsteps of naked feet upon the thorn, only rags and food of insects and drowsiness under the impious noon as a golden tyrant?
¿There are no horses's neighs at the edge of the river, between the great round and shining stones, in the pond, under the green light of the leaves and the shouts of the men and the women bathing at dawn?
The God Corn, the God Flower, the God water, the God Blood, the virgin,
¿All have died, have gone, broken pots at the border of the blinded fountain?
¿Only the toad is alive,
Only sparkles and shines in the night of Mexico the greenish toad, only the fat tyrant of Cempoala is inmortal?
Laid out at the feet of the divine tree of jade watered with blood, while two young slaves fan him, in the days of the large processions at the front of the village, supported in the cross: arm and cane, in battle suit, the carved face of silex aspiring like a precious incense the smoke of the shootings, the weekends in his armored house near the ocean, at one side of his dear one covered with neon gas jewels,
¿only the toad is inmortal?
Here it is the green and cold rage and its tail of knives and cutted glass,
here it is the mongrel with its itchy howl, the taciturn maguey, the nopal and the candelabra bristling, here it is the flower that bleeds and causes bleeds,
the flower of inexorable and unequivocal geometry as a delicate instrument of torture,
here it is the dust that raises like a yellow king and disolves it all and dances solitary and it collapses like a tree that suddenly its roots have dried, like a tower that falls in one piece,
here it is the man that falls and raises and eats dust and drags,
the human insect that perforates the stone and perforates the centuries and decayeds the light.
Here it is the broken stone, the broken man, the broken light.
¿to open the eyes or to close them, is all the same?
Interior castles set on fire by the mind for a purer one to be raised, only radiance and flame,
seed of the image that grows till being tree and causes the skull to explode.
Word that seeks some lips to be sayed.
On top of the ancient human fountain fell down large stones, centuries of slabs, minutes thicknesses on top of the human fountain.
Tell me, drought, polished stone by the time with no teeth, by the hunger with no teeth, shattered dust by teeth that are centuries,
by centuries that are hungers,
tell me, broken pot fallen in the dust, tell me,
¿The light borns rubbing bone against bone, man against man, hunger against hunger, until it arises in the end the spark, the scream, the word, until it springs in the end the water and the tree of wide turquise leaves grows?
We shall dream with eyes opened, we shall dream with the hands,
lets dream active dreams of river seeking its river bed,
Dreams of sun dreaming its worlds,
We shall dream in loud voice, we shall sing until the song grows roots, trunk, branches, birds, stars, sing till the dream engenders and springs from one side of the one who is asleep the red peg of resurrection,
the water of the woman, the spring to drink and to be looked and to be recognized and get recovered, the spring to be known man, the water that speaks alone in the night an calls us with our name,
the spring of the words to say I, you, him, we, under the great living tree statue of the rain, to say the beautiful pronouns, and recognize ourselves, and be faithful to our names we must dream backwards, towards the fountain,
we shall row centuries way up, beyond infancy, beyond the waters of baptism,
tear down the walls between man and man,
join back again what was separated,
life and death are not contrary worlds, we are a single stem with two twin flowers,
we shall dig up the lost word,
dream towards inside and also towards outside, decifer the tatoo of the night and look face to face at the noon and tear away its mask.
Bathe in solar light and eat the nocturnal fruits,
spell the scripture of the stars and of the river,
remember what says the blood and the tide, the earth and the body, return to the starting point, neither inside nor outside, neither up nor down, to the crossing of roads, where the roads begin,
because the light sings with a rumor of water,
with a rumor of folliage sings the water
and the dawn is loaded with fruits, the day and the night reconciled flow like a docile river,
The day and the night caress themselves longly
like a man and a woman in love, as a single endless river under arches of centuries
flow the seasons and the men, towards there,
to the living center of the origin
beyond end and begining.
