THE BIRD OF DREAMS SPEAKS

Just as ghosts are not known for their habits,
I want to explain the key to my best acts.
So you will learn
That
To pschoanalyze the flight of butterflies
There is not better device than the magnets of my beak.
That I feel no envy for fog
For I myself am the true fog, adapted
To the shape of my globetrotting desires.
The fog you see in the field is just a mirage
That cannot endure the spiders of reflections.
That an insect, using the insomnias of my long
Lace tail, can darken the night of someone's temples.
What you will never know is if the roads
Face towards or away from passers-by
For it depends
On which of my wings points to the wet of a cry.
No one will be able to understand that my greaatest surprise
May be to find a fair-haired violin
On a greedy plain of ice,
Though he may know that the color of anxieties
Is that of weeping for a love ripened among nettles.
The same for a snail as for a sigh as for a hoof,
I would make a microphone
To hear the gasping of water in the light's depths.
If my death existed,
I would send for it to be found deep in my eyes
With the first top hat that passed by
Dressed in burning feathers.
There's just one word that inspires my tenderness.
That one balanced
On the tip of a rhetorician's tongue.
For me it never rains, but if it did,
They would be Gothic letters and cottons in females.
This is my alcohol. Sip it while you sleep.
This time only I am going to lead you
To the angriest landscape on earth,
Bleeding to the right of a fantasy of larks.
No hope
Blinds me,
Both because I am at once all blindnesses
And because I slope down beyond every sea.