Tuesday, September 4, 2012

The domain of the father

Not far from the dilapidated foggy coastal towns
stood his ancestral hills
partially landscaped by his manly hand
full of detail, etched with imprecise lines
rivulets, bayous, overgrown with moss
We could vaguely make out the beaches
from the slope of the dunes
We heard the muffled roar of the waves
There was the patio, humid, paved with stones
where he used to sit in the morning
in the midst of the fog

It was not important to define the boundaries
the lay of the land he measured with his hand and eye
to determine the location of the cabins and the forests
the outline of the architecture

What mattered was walking hand in hand with him
That was important
From the center of town to his fields in the heights
From its four corners to his greenhouses,
extensive and humid
I could see his great beasts frolicking at the edge of the pond
in the twilight
And all this, repeated time and time again
leaving traces of superimposed images
the substance of ancient dreams
All these landmarks eroded in concentric waves
by the time of roads and factories
Though in memory he remains obstinate
against the horizon
ebbing and flowing in memory
in the nights of dawns
populated with crickets and remote cold suns
expectant but calm
seen from the broken columns of dreams
in which he still holds sway over his land.

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