The world is a wall
on which we have painted
the horizon, our dreams
of where the sun sets
drawing out of us
aspiration and desire
in an infinite movement
toward a speck of dust
which recedes like a summit
behind the sea.
What storm of suspicion
would rescind the dazzled eye
and raise a hand
to scrape the paint off the distance.
To fathom at once
the hoax of arrows
soaring out of view
before cursing their targets
on the ramparts of fortresses
still bounded within
the foresight of our yearning.
The mote in the gravel
glows in the scale of our sight,
but ceases to beguile,
it crushes the invertebrate hope
that the curtain
is lovelier than
what hides behind it.
Do not look into the face of evil,
for you will see no evil there—
there will be neither seething rage
nor vindictive fury that will suddenly
twist the face which has waited
for another glance at the grief
that never ceases to lacerate you.
The murderer’s eyes
will be clear, not bloodshot,
and he will have the look
of one well-rested,
from having spent many nights
in tranquil slumber
in the haven of his cell.
He will not summon sad memories
to mask his serenity,
or extort tears from the occasions
he was prevented from seizing his prey.
He will not extend to you
the labors of a courteous deception.
Instead, you will see reflected
in his pupils nothing more than the hesitation
that your hatred awakens in you.
Your sorrow will grow pale and bright,
and dissolve in the light
as though it were a dream
you were just beginning to doubt.