That instant that cannot be forgotten
So empty sent back by the shadows
So empty rejected by the clocks
That poor instant adopted by my tenderness
Nakes nakes of blood of wings
Without eyes to remember anguish of old
Without lips to gather the juice of violences
lost in the singing of frozen belltowers.
Shelter it girl blind of soul
Give it your hair scorched by fair
Hug it little statue of terror.
Show it the world convulsing at your feet
At your feet where woodswallows die
Trembling in fear of the future
Tell it that the sighs of the sea
Dampen the only words
That make life worth living.
But that instant sweating of nothing
Curled up in the cave of destiny
Without hands to say anything
Without hands to offer butterflies
To dead children
Alejandra Pizarnik (Argentina, 1936-1972)