ANDRES BONIFACIO MEDITATES UPON HIS CRACKED LEFT ARM tomorrow i die. nothing. only memories now... here is however an arm cracked by a bullet--pure transparent pain. it is so painful at times i forget it belongs to me. perhaps i belong to it instead? it devours me. it devours the universe. it is bigger than the universe. the universe is not this painful im sure. there is a place for innumerable universes in this pain. it is so pure it is purer than a dewdrop. dropping into the abyss. perhaps this is how it feels to be god.... here, take this arm, this left arm blossoming incessantly with the purest, intensest petals of pain--take it! i leave it to you who thinks he lives. with it, as with a deathly curse, i have written some clear lines, invisible since then. bullets however have no regard for the invisible, nor do neuters, nor solidifed puddles of horseshit and urine like emilio aguinaldo y famy--intelligent enough to get a grip on a butt.... do they still glow in your eyes now?--those lines which launched you, do they still pain your soul? do you think i regretted this absurdity, this left arm? it fired the first shots that clarified your destiny, and how is it now? what have you done to my left arm? to my left arm? to my left arm? can you still find a trace of the acacia leaves, those dreamy acacia leaves, in it, and those earthborn stars so equally suited to the measure of the human being, no less strange, no less demanding that you shatter inside your bones for them, those april flowers of the acacia tree, does there remain a lingering absence of the luminous purple fragrance in your soul? who will own this arm? who will find himself in the violet leaves of its anguish? who will want to own it after theyre through with it, the hostagers and vendors of the revolution:--they thought to sell the moon, poor blinded idiots! they would of course succeed to sell themselves...but who would ever know this? and is truth really that fragile? would it survive erasure by screeching monkeys--the magdalos, the magdiwangs, pio del pilar--would the assholes have completely obliterated it, would they be able to murder all the witnesses, would she be able to smuggle these words from here, and would they ever reach my true descendants, my real heirs:--would anyone inherit me?... who would discover it in twenty, thirty, a hundred years, already by then a forest? who would come by it as to a mirror, who would want it for a fountain with its permanent rainbow of pain, who would lose himself in its labyrinth of agony, its violet transparencies, its pure branches of light? who would fall into the mirror of its gaping silence to find himself waiting for himself there in its clear depths,-- would a poet arise from those depths in a hundred years?... these monkey trials by monkeys trying this cracked left arm--i know how they have begun to erase the truth and how the future historians so-called would pick up their lies... would they be able to murder all the witnesses? would the poet ever come, in a hundred years would he come, would the true and pure son of my revolution come to make of the truth a mountain range of words, would he ever come to redeem this cracked left arm?... and then just this hole would be there, bored by a bullet, the pure hole shimmering in its pain. Is it that every void must fill itself either with being or with pain, and would a soul see itself in the blue sky of this pain, does it really help to clarify anything, this so pure clarity, this opening, this harsh transparency of a difference:--is there really in man any use for such as this? what great ado! the crack with its purple lines of pure violence running, so many excessive jagged diameters of seismic bloom, what heedless frenzy, so many pure horses raging to and fro in their tireless errand of blind pitiless mindbreaking pain pain pain, what pure absurd clarity of flesh, of being, horses of lightning whinnying prancing trotting galloping, whipped by a boundless fury shattering the limits of all madness, for what madness is not its own perfect satisfaction?... to rot helplessly with a cracked arm and a neck slashed open, for the time being incapable of death, and of life just these words, these words, pitiless clarity condemned to speak itself unto death:--is this what, if there be such a thing, is called solitude? pride and vanity of poets, a lapse, a little always retrospective death, whilst, the finally dead simply is not. there is no solitude in words whilst, ceasing to speak, you are only an animal or a thing.... and this pain, this undying pain, this pain which excludes everyone, even myself, for how can i possibly belong there, how can it possibly be mine, this pure transparency of the universe erased--and includes all in that, unable to forget itself, it speaks at the highest height of eloquence, it speaks, it rots, it gnaws with words, for would it not be this painful for stone to speak and each word speaking the unspeakable incandescent passion of all bodies in man, of nebulae, of metals, of the winds, the waters, the lights, the colours, the sounds, the scents, the savours:--fruits and flowers of the human flesh, the passion of words... --in that the word is, death is what never happens to one.... tomorrow, a century, two, three centuries of tomorrows, it will only be a word, only a painful word, only a word in extremest pain--nothing but a pain in the soul, yours, perhaps, who knows? and then we shall all die, the species that speaks, and only nothing will remain of us...: but meanwhile, in the human forever of this word, this pain, this painful word...
Posted on: Thu, 25 Dec 2014 08:55:05 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015