Arranged in front of me,
to me and my steel hammer
everywhere in this room as vast as a desert
the men
they are like tubular bells
metal cylinders arranged
motionless like a terracotta army
Similar and dumb
but not one the same as the other
similar cylinders
but not one the same as the other:
black iron
bronze
stained copper
reddish gold or fine gold
there blue silver
pure platinum
brass of tuba and handle o
industrial cast iron
Similar bells
tubular
standing waiting
but I know: none the same as the other.
I know every mouth is the same
but before singing.
So them.
Ritual bells all the same distinct not by shape
but from the toll.
It is not them I am looking for, but the sound.
And here under my hammer they sing each of a different song.
Each releases its own reverb
concentric aura of possibility and splendor
violet vibrations
and gilded
that ripple and innervate
the emptiness around.
I'm not looking for men
but stories
each precious
none ever
the same as the other.
Shadows behind my back, they give human thrills of presence that I took my breath away. They all crowd to get my attention and in the meantime they swallow my words. Greedy, marauders, they play as if they were killer dolls. They look for my pulsations, vibrations, lively feelings to make them crowns of thorns. I open dull books and they immediately come out as actors from a distant past. They want to sigh again, whisper secret things to me, make me forget the morning sun. You swing big through the light, but in the dark you disappear. Follow every movement unable to resist, silent and dark. If you had the opportunity, how many things would you say? Muta, do your job, accompanying me everywhere. You are part of me even if elusive, I have you but I don’t possess you. I see you but you cannot do the same, I would like to tell you many things but your ears would not perceive the sound of my voice. Sometimes people can become shadows too, you know?