Octavio Paz


At times poetry is the vertigo of bodies and the vertigo of speech and the vertigo of death; The walk with eyes closed along the edge of the cliff, and the verbena in submarine gardens; The laughter that sets on fire the rules and the holy commandments; The descent of parachuting words onto the sands of the page; The despair that boards a paper boat and crosses, for forty nights and forty days, the night-sorrow sea and the day-sorrow desert; The idolatry of the self and the desecration of the self and the dissipation of the self; The beheading of epithets, the burial of mirrors; The recollection of pronouns freshly cut in the garden of Epicurus, and the garden of Netzahualcoyotl; The flute solo on the terrace of memory and the dance of flames in the cave of thought; The migrations of millions of verbs, wings and claws, seeds and hands; The nouns, bony and full of roots, planted on the waves of language; The love unseen and the love unheard and the love unsaid: the love in love. Syllables seeds.

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