I dream the poem of ideal architecture
Whose very own cement lining
Secures word for word, I became an expert in extracting
Sparks from gravel and milk from stones.
I wake up;
And the whole poem comes apart, thread by thread.
I wake up;
The building, stone and lime, flitters
Like a lightweight paper loose at wind's mercy and it soars,
Ashes of a body emptied of any meaning
I wake up, and the poem-mirage fades
Deconstructed as if it never had been.
I wake up! eyes leaden with the mush of souls
And deafened ears,
This is how I emerge from the successive sleeps:
Gone are the rings of smoke and opium
And I'm left with dumbfounded fingers.
Metonymies, alliterations, metaphors, oxymorons
All vanished in the maelstrom.
It shouldn't be of much help to lurk about
The phantom summit of the watchtower
Neither the simulation of sinking into sleep.
Not even truly sleeping.
For the key-issue is:
Under which mask will all that's repressed return?