THAT PROPHET

The unsustainable grandeur of what he thinks is that which fills the emptiness, making its meaning clear.

He lives in the dark sea of always having to do something, shouting at fantastic and unexpected achievements, and from the desert of scarlet-hued flowers, he arrives far on the roof of the world, and I feel raptured.

Barefoot on golden petals, I show the path that leads into the true, free from doubts that tear the veil, I combat obstinate and cowardly prudence.

But the prophet presses far beyond that wall, bringing his art down into pain, that prophet has ardour. And when in doubt, he finds everything chasing after him.

I would give everything for him, my blood, my dreams, my sane awareness.

I would give everything for him, every thing and any valuables, in the sole hope of living by chance.

Inside him there is no boredom for even a moment, with grandiose thoughts to fill any emptiness, and golden petals to placate the torment.

And in the light of the true, from the roof of the world, among a thousand moths, I would shout out my meaning.