The Hidden Word

Lonely Sunday reading from Bolivian poet Jaime Saenz, who died the day I was born.

Watching the River Flow

     
    When the hour comes I'll speak with you, watching the river flow, at the river's edge.
    With the profile of your face, with the echo of your voice, parceling out my voice into the depths,
     into the great spaces that death's eye has seen, you will know the hidden word.
     Where the wind stills. Where living is finished off and all color is one.
     Where water is not touched and where earth is not touched: inside my invisible presence, where you know yourself to be, in the millenary present
     -- of deeds, of smells and of forms; of animals, of minerals, of plants inside time.
     In time, of time. Inside premonition's root. Inside the seed, inside anguish,
     only you will know the hidden word.
     The aloneness of the world. The aloneness of man. Man's reason for being and the world's
     -- the circular solitude of the sphere. Increment and decline;
     the closing of the hermetic thing. The hermetic closing of the thing.
     The immense, the immeasurable -- the incommensurate grave, indivisible and blank.

Copied from Jacket Magazine. - 1/12/2014