Portuguese Man of War

[Guest guest]

Master Gepetto's work was already done,

before Abraham left his father's protection.

Regardless of what you do, what you say,

or what you would like to think perhaps today,

it was done before daylight truckled into the night,

it was done long before the whale swallowed up a man,

called Jonas by God and Pinocchio by the wind,

flowing through the trees of Gepetto's lungs.

It was done before the word, before every before.

And yet a work has to be done but not for tomorrow,

not for the day, not even for the moment,

not as pass-time, not by request and not as mission.

The game of giving, taking and losing names,

the belly of a barren woman and Gepetto's hands,

cetaceans crossing the sea, particles of dust,

the alignment of an interminable succession of associations.

You can't escape until the work is done, my friend,

you, son of your own dreams, got the gift of freedom,

where the wind passes through the rocks,

where peace fills your heart and clarity your mind,

in the belly of a whale, we will meet each other, today.

I will write letters to you in adoration and burn incense,

I will rest my shoulders on the beach of that ocean,

talking to rebellious Sicambrians, gypsies, to Belial and Inanna,

and the patriarchs of the twelve tribes.

She is the succession, in silent exaltation,

of an never ending alignment of surprises,

where dreams have an end and life begins.

The splints on the floor of Gepetto's garage,

turned into a corpse and a piece of rotten meat,

to the contour of a forgotten smile.

 

 

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