#112 Wed (10/12/22) - DE QUE NADA SE SABE, a poem by J.L.B. (La rosa profunda, 1975)

 THAT NOTHING IS KNOWN
The moon ignores that it is calm and clear
and he doesn't even know it's the moon;
The sand, what is the sand. There won't be one
thing that knows that its form is rare.
The ivory pieces are so foreign
to the abstract chess as the hand
that governs them. Perhaps human destiny
of brief joys and long sorrows
it is an instrument of the Other. We ignore it;
giving him God's name does not help us.
Vain are also the fear, the doubt
and the truncated prayer that we started.
What bow will this arrow have thrown
that I am? What summit can be the goal?

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