XIX

Hoy ha vuelto a mí un librito de poemas de Auster. Al sacarlo del bolso el peso de un recuerdo impidió que lo soltara. En ese libro leí White, antes de que la muerte viniera. Hoy he vuelto a abrir el libro, y él ha vuelto a hablar:


XIX The dead still die: and in them
the living. All space,
and the eyes, hunted
by brittle tools, confined
to their habits.
To breathe is to accept
this lack of air, the only breath
sought in the fissures
of memory, in the lapse that sunders
this language of feuds, without which earth
would have granted a stronger omen
to the level orchards
of stone. Not even
the silence pursues me.

Paul Auster