Dancers
we, dancers, are all that remain
of another, ancient terrain;
that which is impossible to exit
completely, where remnants of language
snake around the pulse
of unforgettable words—
       mother,
       god,
       sun...
and where the only refuge from the heat
is in the shade of two palm trees
making love, like a licentious green octopus
with savage eyes; the world is dead
without passion.
we dance what cannot be stirred.
look, the only life worth living is hollow.
consider it a voice left to blow itself
through a whisper,
and there's nothing to see at the gates
of the city you love
but more cities just like it.
we've built what cannot be danced.
but Krishna was a dancer too, you see,
when he stood on a ledge of the Chrysler Building
preaching the Gita
with suicidal extremity
his movements were exquisite.
and we are all that remain of every terrain
pushed to the back pages of archaeology magazines
that nobody bothered to proofread.
but listen to me:
we have inhabited this planet
for an exceptionally long time,
and our dance is a monument
braced for a carbomb.