Reality works in open mystery

                                                  Macedonio Fernández


The Eye
What consumes its flame:
These hours without a name
Well beyond language
And darkness.


We are just
A self-awareness
That the eye lends to the ancient seeing,
To the old world,
An excuse for being.


The things it sees
Are more distant
Than they may seem.
Silence: language speaks.
The landscape creaks
Of reality.


In a flash of lightning
The mind drinks a sunset –
Such has been the old law.


To not confide in mirrors,
In spectacles,
And in what the eye doesn’t see.
To be is to perceive, said Berkeley.
It wasn’t always this way:


See, a palm’s length
From paradise,
The closed, precise eye
Envisages the Eye.


Afterimages whinny
Unknown designs,
Its thirst for more:
To rob the real
Of two open eyes.


“The wind breathes
My bodiless thoughts
(The soul gets out of breath)
(My silence sweats).”


It sees itself, the eye, island of
Pure movement now,
Limited between the tongue
And the time.


The panel of the sunset traces
With its hunger for the impossible
Refuge, momentum,
Ideograms of light.


In the eye of the hurricane
Where it
Is calmer.


Double of itself,
Condemned to seeing,
But separate.
Who observes?
The pupil,
Its servant?


If what it sees
Is the real
Then what is this
That moves
At the speed of a wink?


I am not that which it perceives
Since the darkness would then kill me.


Between music and the world,
In the silence of its curvature,
Between the sound and this rain,
Many answers without questions.


The eye, without a past,
Electric flux
What seems to be,
Anchors its shadows,
Burns in an instant of air.


But, unreachable,
All of this advances,
Escapes you, skin,
Slow papyrus,


Vacuum of voice,
A nothing that vociferates
Between the self that dissolves
– a slit in the silence –
And the eye that luciferates.


      – Rodrigo Garcia Lopes (Translated by Marco Alexandre de Oliveira)


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