To fall is to die

I will speak tonight words that have plumbed the sordid manifest in the scattered multicolored sands of the commentary of myself and I will be the fleeting dust of sovereign and strong stars.

Slow and slow. Shhhh! Silence! I see shadows of the near and distant self... searching, frightened apparition, shadow of the tree in whose leaves are my thoughts. My serpent girdles it thoughtfully: I am until I become a perpetual word! And from this foliage you fall, leaf, germinating something more than your self, an oscillating seeming buried, lethargic. You in a trance, I am that which is to be overcome! And from on high fluttering its wings... even a profane man of blind faith would see in the scattered sands, with his broken fists, that the phoenix takes reminiscence.

And the eagle with the voice of the Bible: Full is the Truth! Do you still gird your brows in dialogue with the same distant and changeable self? Ardent of imagination, do you play your role in yourself and still fear? No! No! It is man who kills with one shot for fear of flying and being sublime like a distinguished tree... How empty his crown, corroded by his existence! Even his serpent has lost his wings... His branches fall dry, already corrupt he passes through the fire.

O imaginary ghost of my wisdom! You who follow all my steps, you will of myself, of my lost self... today the return of the dead self! He who was buried and hated in the sublime field of the unknown empire. I, embraced by loneliness, empty, lethargic. Fall mantle cast by simulation, my doomed self, mortal, transitory and adverse. I enjoy thinking something beyond men, far from their race, great to their minds. Aware of other's thoughts, of perceiving your generosity... morbid, seductive in the night of my mind's duel; deep and silent battle.

Invaded by the icy wind of terrifying odor, you secretly probe my meditation, planting the sifting doubt, bark of imagination that you plucked from my inner tree in whose leaves are my thoughts.

Yes! My ghost speaks in this gray, desolate land. Intelligence keeps the secret and there are still important things left. You take up my past, you mold it by seizing words of fiction and reality, and you return in that specter that denies itself.

The leaves fall slowly in a mystical night, the moon's reflection hits my sight, my shadow is no longer with me...

No! No!" adds the serpent in expectation of the reminiscent vestige, "If you can deny me you can trap me as your future or release me as a past from my eternal present, until you make of me a perpetual answer of what I have thought beyond men.

Visionary thinking, search for the mystery of life; our serpent in spectrum, "intelligence".

Arise with power, with glory and with the smile in mind... Oh in whose leaves are my thoughts! What is our perpetual answer that denies itself? Intelligence? Its ignorance?... From this door is born the indistinguishable in an immense tremor that derives the highest of all that is holy, a comfort that does not reward me....
I conscious of other people's thoughts would see shadows of the self digging, feeling the scent of the shy and indulgent... in front of that bed of arcane stone, secrets emerge voracious...

To fall is to die! -The shadow will be reborn sprouting from my tree and will return... How is it possible to comprehend such a glacial ego with all the glory in equality? This is what I say to men: afraid to fly in the gray earth of the scattered sands and break all law and transmute you into fiction or reality?....

I see from the heights of my inner tree the unknown, where your abode bears my name at its base.