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Suffering
The dancer dances. The dance
does not dance.
The dance is motionless at the center of the dance.
War is motionless at the heart of battle.
The silence speaks. Silence!
"I do not exist
when a silence rises beyond the silence which is me,
tanks and cannons at full blast, but zero in their noise."
People suffer. As for suffering, suffering
does not consider it.
She demands everything, except herself on the gallows.
Absent from the star where you named her,
when suffering, an old spear,
a sheaf of crosses,
sees...a fig tree, grandeur, buds, intelligence...
when she sees the claw, and the drop, and the fat,
when she sees...but where did she get it,
this power to see?...
when she sees man and God gnawed away by their essence
and in front of the live bone the rats, gluttonous, sitting down,
then, of a sudden, suffering
trembles within herself.
She undertakes her daring voyage of self-discovery.
Her nails in the flesh disfigure the law.
You will meet suffering.
You will love her.
You will love her wrested completely from innocence.
She weeps. She is thirsty. She eats her arms.
As she advances
towards the lowest place
the saved world dances, and the dance dances.
War brays from fear in front of the water of battle.