Tonight my clock gasps

next to my darkened temple, like

the apple of a revolver that turns

under the trigger without finding the bullet.

The moon white, immobile, shows tears,

and is an eye that aims … And I sense how

the great Mystery is locked up in a hostile

and ovoid idea, in a vermilion bullet.

Ah, hand that limits, that threatens

behind every door, and that breathes

in every clock, yield and transfer!

Over the gray spider of your frame,

another great Hand made of light sustains

a bullet in a heart’s blue shape.