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Rene Magritte. “Invisible world”.

Here, upon this rock,
the pillars of the world were settled
once,
when the burning effigy
of the universe still forged the cosmic
dust of a life clung to a thought,
to a notion, to a form, to a name.
Here it has remained, quiescent,
rejected as the cornerstone
of the unknown.
No one came to save it from the oblivion
shadow, nor sang the ages and times
boring it through and covering it until carving
the root of its impassible abandonment.
Over what oceans of vastness their elements
came through before the primal silence
was shattered for ever more and the flaming
fierceness of the volcanoes restrained it
between the ground and the sky?
How many deep cataclysms cracked
the matrix of its first continent?
What amount of hands slit the compact fiber
of its entrails?
Wandering eyes could have swept its bedding
of stony steles, as a fleeting flight of birds rushing
to more friendly and tender landscapes.
Here it is, more steadfast and eternal than the blade of an era.
I touch the sharp roughness of its contours
with the shivering of a tiny newborn
hand at the first touching of the lactating breast,
and sitting on it, I reckon it huge,
as a portentous watchtower raising up
over the vast ocean of eons and uncountable stars.

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