The Maneuvers of Immortality

Our east, and from us, a foreignness poured out that only reveals itself through the commands of terror, and wandering, and the cosmic bells that blow in the breasts of mothers, turning their forgotten eyes into figures, granting them breasts that wail over our animals arranged in scenes of farewell to the air and its beating, the air tired from running, and the prey traveling wounded in its mouth, tired from running, and the prayers twisting on a long neigh that drags them to caves, until they seem as if they come from a mythical darkness that the lush world cannot bear, nor will it realize its accumulation with a sinful knowledge that babbles about sacrifices, mines, and the repulsive treasures of immortality without a vessel or sail, other than a sea that places us in the strings of its nets armed with the horns of past centuries that have aged but still their blossoms soothe the crying processions, the sadness of minarets, and the fruits of temptation swaying, praise for the music fires, praise for the burning pathways with their scents and their commandments, and the covenants of their herbs that touch creatures, striking their pulse and sight.