In the discovered ancient temple
the sacrarium in Pompeii, with blue
and green walls, with sober niches
all there was life, hope all the serpents
were moribund there in the blood
and in the recesses of the mind
and no demon who should stop
their agony or who should sweeten
their writhing in a body devoted
to nothingness in the passion
of the vacuum only the ash-grey
smile of those burned alive animates
the grandiose and funereal
decomposition of the thought.
A fear vaster than the sea
floats in the temple: that no one
will exhume us. But you won’t
be able to do anything alone.
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