These are my words,
my last words.
They grow around me without my guarding them,
then they return to my mouth
and within it they lodge to spend the night.
I speak them so softly that not even you can hear them
close to the ground, so inapprehensible
that even rocks absorb them.
Everything is possible here. Only I
am impossible, a face
with neither color, nor volume
through these galleries where mirrors repeat
themselves in mirrors. They are all uninhabited.
Their thickness reflects nothing, but a confusing light,
drawing my absence among the broken glass.
I was Narcissus when I was alive.
While I was not on the shoulder of time,
I watched it pass by. Death is now
the revenge of others, of those strange others whom I loved
without projecting myself in them.
Come to me.
I shall not hurt you. Know that
from loneliness to loneliness
I fled from a heap of eternities
to cross the earth. I was a traveler,
I slipped into shadows I never knew before,
and in this exile, when I look back,
I think of the dream of the just:
a foamy island awashed in blue.
Perhaps the chills of winter will have mercy on me.
I know that on my tomb yellow flowers will blossom.
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