From the ruins
other words
are born.
They sprout like shoots
between fallen bricks
filling in every crack
with roots,
they break the rubble
with the incumbent
fragility
of blades of grass,
restless and sinuous
as paper streamers.
They are not the words
of yesterday
nor those of the past,
ambiguous,
crossed,
they are other words.
They are born
from the ruins
of a language
boorish,
with the two-faced
gaze
of a tired Janus.
They sweat,
stutter, start,
run in circles
in the double destiny
that afflicts them,
double like
a mirror
reflecting
and observing,
double like
the facing
shores
of the ocean.
They are born
from the ruins
the other words.
They bloom redundant
tapping between teeth
a tune
of disparate sounds.
They rise from the rubble
to fill up forgetfulness,
to give voice
to silence
in the wrong
language.
They crash,
blend, infect one another,
their primeval vigour
covers with altered
symbols
the silent leavings
of the downfall.
The rise from the rubble
with an age-old memory
of departures and farewells.
They shine
streamers
in the hybrid iridescence
of sunset.
From the ruins
are born
other words.
Not the first or the last,
others.
translated by Brenda Porster