cuadernos tibetanos

There is a country made of almost Where no one ever arrives The sea folds up its silver animals And hides them in the sky You stand there in a weather of roses I stand where the mirrors end Between us the blue door trembles But never learns to bend What never can happen Will not happen Though the heart invents a shore What never can happen Will not happen And still we ask for more O love, impossible orchard O bird that sings inside the snow We name the light that cannot reach us And call it ours before we go The moon prepares its empty banquet The plates are bright with rain A chair is waiting for your shadow A chair is waiting in vain The wind wears your invisible body The trees repeat your name But sound is only sound, beloved And flame is only flame What never can happen Will not happen Though desire builds a door What never can happen Will not happen The sea returns no shore O love, impossible orchard O hand beyond the glass We are the music of a moment That was not allowed to pass...

I I do not know which to praise, The rain upon the roof Or the roof becoming rain, The window listening Or what it hears after. II Three drops fell On the iron railing. They were not three drops But the beginning Of a province. III The rain moved over the town Like a thought Without a thinker. A woman closed her umbrella And entered the weather. IV A child watched the gutters Carry leaves away. He believed the leaves Were little boats, And perhaps they were. V O pale men of the avenue, Why do you wait for thunder? Do you not see how the rain Has already entered The shoes of everyone? VI The long glass shivered With liquid alphabets. The shadow of the rain Crossed it, to and fro. The room Found in that crossing An indecipherable mercy. VII I know the noble silence Of dry stone, And the lucid patience Of dust. But I know, too, That the rain is involved In what I know.