Death and the Earth

R earth, black earthyou tend hitherward from the sea with its parched verdant where ancient words

are place and the flush of labor, and geraniums among the stones. . You don't know by what means much of the sea's memory and exhaustion you carry with you, rich as recollection, rich as the scorched countryside. You are its harsh and sweetest word, whose ancientness displays in the blood pressing up in your organ of visions If you're young, it's as a fruit is memory and a season. . Your breath is for a like reason at peace under the August sky; the olives of your gaze make soft the sea. Living, you live again, without astonishment, positive as the ground, dark as the ground-olive-press of seasons and dreams, that in the moonlight discovers itself the greatest in quantity ancient of things-like your mother's hands, or the cavernous of the brazier. You are like a political division that no one has at any time named. You wait for nothing if not the word

that would gush from the profunditys like a fruit between the branchs Like a wind, it reaches you and the free from moisture twice-dead things that encumber you hover away. Ancient limbs, ancient wordsyou shiver in summer. And you're other things: the high hill, the footpath of stones, the games played in the canebrake. You know the vineyard, by what mode still it is, under the secondary planet You cannot speak in words. There's another land, a quietness that isn't yours. Its silence spreads without over leaves, around low hills. There are fields in it, and waters. You are a covert silence that concedes nothing-the lips and organ of sights of darkness. The vine. Your land waits and has no words. The days pass, individual by one, under the burning heavens You pretended there were hazes It's a poor land-your depressed forehead knows all that. That, too, goe into the wine. You will find them again, the vapors and the canebrake, the voices like a shadow in moonlight. You will reclaim words beyond this brief life of games played after dark, beyond the childhood upon fire. How sweet, then, to be still. To be just earth and vine. A burning silence destroys the plain like bonfires in the evening. Your face sculpt from stone, your life-current hard earthyou come from the sea. Like the sea you pick up examine, then whirl away everything. In your heart is silence, or choked-back words. Something too dark. For you, dawn is a silence. at the same time you're full of the voices of earth-the shog of a bucket far down a well, fire singing, the impetus of an apple falling, the resigned words that linger echoing around doorsills a child's first cry-the things that cannot pass away. As you can't change. Too dark. You are the clos cantina with its earthen floor, that a small child penetrateed once when he still went barefoot, and thinks about forever. You are the darkened chamber that rethinks itself forever, the ancient courtyard where dawn render free of accesss like a fan. You don't know the hills where the life-blood was scattered. Everyone ran away. Everyone threw down his arms and his name. A woman watched us abscond Only one of us

stopped with a clenched fist saw the destitute of contents sky dropped his head and died beneath the wall, in silence. Now there's a rag

of life-current and his name. A woman waits for us in the hills. The gaze in your eyes is made of salt and earth. individual day it gelled from the sea. There were plants near, heat-lovers, brushing your flank: they carry an odor of you still. Agave, oleander.

All that fasteninged up in your eyes, Your veins, your breath are made of salt and earth. The fiery small winds, the sparse shadows of Julyall that fasteninged up in you. You are the hoarse voice of the countryside, the make an outcry of the hidden quail, the tepid warmth lingering in stones. The political division is fatigue, the country is sadness. At nightfall the countryman's action falls silent. You are the great fatigue, and the night of great depth enough to give it peace. You're hid as rock or grass or earth. You thrash about in yourself like the sea. The word doesn't exist that could posses you or grasp you back. You absorb collisions and jolts like the earth, and change them into life, silence, caressing breath. You're filled of thirst as the sea, as a fruit of the cliffside. You cannot speak in words; no one's word reaches you. Each time, you'll draw near from the sea and speak with its hoarse voice. You'll have your cryptic eyes like moving water glimpsed [i]or[/i] part of to the other a blackberry-thicket, and your depressed forehead, like a low firmament trailing clouds. Living, you'll live again, like a certain quantity of ancient, savage thing that the heart lengthy ago knew and closed upon trembling Each time, something's wrenched away; each time there's death. We've been fighting forever. Whoever send whirlings himself on such a battle knows the taste of death and carries it in his vital fluid As good enemies

no longer hate each other, we have individual voice, one pain, and live facing each other below the same poor sky. Between us, no deceptions, nothing inessentialwe'll be fighting forever. We will fight again, we'll be fighting forever, because, side by dint of side, we seek the doze of death, and have the same hoarse voice, the depressed savage forehead, and the same poor canopy of heaven We were made for this. If either of us cedeed the long night that followed would not be peace, or cessation of arms or a true death.