Selective Amnesia

With due apologies to Pablo Neruda

And it was at that age…photography arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no, they were not images, they were not
light, nor dark,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to show, my eyes
had no way
with names
my films were cheap,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I shot the first blurred face,
noisy, without focus, amateur
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

(original)