like philosophy invents the existing symbols,
a war that may have limits,
but also has conscience,
where you can wash your soul from the dirt,
without worrying that it will be consumed
each time, each full moon
by fabricated ideas
since objective truths are no more.
I mimic a daring narrator
so as to be able to deny creativity,
so as to be able to shock,
so as to be able to be indifferent
to the fragrance of a night-blooming flower
in a sweet summer night,
so as to be able to ignore an impregnable truth
by turning to reason.
I deny the present that turns to past
the colorless tasks
the great lady of Doubt
the dispassionate love
the heroes enclosed in gift boxes
the everlasting curse of presence.
Where is the resurrection I was promised?