MY NAME FOR YOURS

I must be one of the few poets
who speaks with the dead.
My finger silently points out to them
their sudden disappearance.
I look where their eyes were
and I speak to them with mine
half whispering their memories.

Let god come and see it,
the black silence tells me.
But let no one recriminate
my daring. Let no one
reproach what I see in the darkness.
Let no one interrupt
this conversation with the infinite.

I must be one of the few poets
who dares to do it.
My body unclothed,
I release my soul to darkness
and penetrate the mystery
with the eyes of a blind man.

In the immediate calm
I silence my name
and attend to their memories.
These things shouldn’t be said,
but I must be one of the few poets
who speaks with the dead.

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