I’m terrified of a book (often witnessed in a dream)
which, once opened, would be frozen
and in its pages I would arrive, all of a sudden
to every verse I haven’t yet written,
but by which my soul is nevertheless imbibed,
like the water in a wet sponge.
I see myself reading that book
only until the middle of every poem
and I see every spotless dream
ambassadors have sent from their republics,
though it’s still early in this late hour for me,
as I learn at once what is written further along.
In one line a poem is resurrected,
and the eyes slip, devastated by ruminations
over a destiny that’s postponed,
over those dear and saintly lines
transcribed by a strange hand.
Unwritten pages going wild in a locked drawer,
turning that book over in the ancient twilight
with a bitter smacking of my lips
as if that book was my doomed private dossier.