Listen to Me as the Rain is Heard
Listen to me as the rain is heard,
not with attention, but not with distraction either,
light traces, a fine drizzle,
water that is the air itself and air that is time itself.
The day is still alive,
the night not yet born,
blurred shapes
at the bend beyond the corner,
the shapes of time
in the curve of silence.
Hear me, as the rain is heard,
without hearing me, fix your ear to what I say,
with eyes open inwardly, in sleep,
with all five senses awake.
It is raining, light traces, a murmur of consonants,
air and water, weightless words:
that we are and that they are,
the days and the years, this moment,
a weightless time, a pain that weighs.
Listen to me as the rain is heard.
The wet asphalt shines,
steam rises and drifts away,
the night unfolds and casts its gaze on me.
You are you and your body of vapor,
you and your face of the night,
you and your restless lightning hair.
You cross the street and enter my brow,
water traces before my eyes.
Hear me, as the rain is heard,
the asphalt is wet and you cross the street,
in the mist, lost in the night,
in this night that sleeps in your bed.
It is the wave swelling in your breath.
Your fingers of water moisten my forehead,
your fingers of fire burn my eyes,
your fingers of air open the eyelids of time,
a waterfall of visions and resurrections.
Hear me, as the rain is heard.
The years flee away, the moments arrive foreign.
Do you hear the footsteps in the other room?
They are not here, nor there: you hear them
from another time that happens now.
Hear the footsteps of time,
the creator of weightless, impossible places.
Hear the rain as it runs across the terrace.
The night is now dark, a grave night,
lightning sleeps in nests among the leaves,
a restless garden wanders at the mercy of fate,
your shadow covers this page of the book.
