Look, witness: this is the face of a man
Who never saw thy father.
This is a man who faced no powder.
This is a man who abolished the corpses of his dying brothers and sisters melting in the gutters.
This is a man who met no spirit.
A mind who learned to stay quiet,
A man that in his final breath failed to be silent.
This is our man, our gift, our fountain, founding, foundation.
Being, compromised and seen as a chair.
Beauty, found as a box.
Latent blood of a pale mime, that never saw a thing,
Because he already had seen it all, before thinking.
Happenings, images, desires, unanchored and put in front of us.
There’s no man, no being, no thinking, no music instrument;
There is,
However complicated and deranged the turns are now,
A man with both hands shaking, unpleasantly,
Unwillingly, asleep maybe, in some boyhood dream of yours,
Towards his sword, to kill, once again, that homeless clothes seller,
Until a word finally calls,
Breaking the inexistent, yet overwhelming, veil of silence
that always settles somewhat unexpectedly, especially in times of war,
The word that before, in time, was his, and only– thine.