Story of a Failed Race, a Dead Mind and a Sphinx

"...To the Earth art thou not forever dead? To its honors, to its flowers, to its golden aspirations? And a cloud, dense, dismal, and limitless, does it not hang eternally between thy hopes and Heaven?"

(E.P. "William Wilson")

In a spot of my town, the name of which I cannot call to mind, there, lives the Mother of the Emigrant, in front of the forever young Ocean, and its ever newborn waves because: there is something younger than the Ocean?

Like a deformed Picasso in Biarritz, she beholds the horizon line in the silent Winter nights, the effect of the full Moon on the tides, the funereal sterility of my Mare Tenebrarum.

Her hollow eyes paralyze the saline waters with a love that scares, as her extended hand petrifies my Ocean, which is cold and is green, like the Princess Glauce murdered by Medea, woman and witch.

Perhaps this sphinx assumed and carried on her back the tears of those who sailed away under stormy skies, to never return?

And you know that no one could tell tears from raindrops in the storm.


Like an atavic feeling about something never lived, about someone never seen, about a voice never heard, this totem controls the glaucous tides, this mother who never was a daughter...from the distance can be seen the silvery ships from the French Brittany fulminated in the blue, like argent capsules.








Observing her face from the milk forest can be noted the horror of her gesture, she is like a mother-harpy frozen by the lightning, in the middle of her rampant flight.

The effigy asks me who I am and what I'm doing here.
Her voice is voiceless and tremendous, I hide my eyes from the Sun.




...Later, the day will end heavily, and the Moon will rise in the sky swiftly, and the periodic variation in the surface level of the Ocean will make her eyelashes grow under the lunation.

And la Lluna will shine in her most atrocious and full light, in the middle of the astral tomb

And still the stars will escape away from the lunar terror.

And yet the repugnant dogs, and their masters, and all those whose hearts are hardened like the steel, they will lose their minds in selenolatry.

And the confusion and the schizophrenia will be their bed.



But my shadow won't be there to see it.