I was born on a day

when God was sick.

Everybody knows that I am alive,

that I am bad; and they do not know

about the December of that January.

For I was born on a day

when God was sick.

There is a void

in my metaphysical air

that no one is going to touch:

the cloister of a silence

that spoke flush with fire.

I was born on a day

when God was sick.

Brother, listen, listen …

Okay. And do not let me leave

without bringing Decembers,

without leaving Januaries.

For I was born on a day

when God was sick.

Everybody knows that I am alive,

that I chew … And they do not know

why in my poetry galled winds,

untwisted from the inquisitive

Sphinx of the Desert,

screech an obscure

coffin anxiety.

Everybody knows … And they do not know

that the Light is consumptive,

and the Shadow fat …

And they do not know how the Mystery synthesizes …

how it is the sad musical

humpback who denounces from afar

the meridional step from the limits to the Limits.

I was born on a day

when God was sick,

gravely.