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Shut up, Mirror, and swallow
your silverfoil
so that I can
enter your transparency
and attain
remembrance of the night,
of the darkness where,
somewhere in the deep, a corner
of the enclosure
of my birth
will shine
that so in the rock
formed by all
that ever has been
I will find
the lovely remains
of the days
of love
and of victory
sleeping in the warm
dream of the child
who has tasted blood
who understands
the song of the birds
the long lost word -
pours out tears
of light, and everywhere,
throws down signs
and symbols until
out on the open road he sees
the shadow of
what has gone wrong, and then
he stops
and asks
to die.

I look at myself and I am no more.
Time stops and hardens into bone.
Where are those whose steps I hear
at the sickly green
hour of the revenants?
I've lost the meaning of words,
gone in the delight of the taste of blood.
Oh, I'm the one to pass judgment on me
and on the pages
of the register is written
the price of knowledge.
No way will ever open
to the damned longing after sweat.
Where is the one that I am?
Shut up, mirror.
You're swallowing my life.