BEFORE A CORPSE

And well!
Here you are, before the dissecting table,
Where the horizon of the sciences
The extension of its limits swells.
Here, where rigid experience
Comes to dictate its superior laws
To which existence is subjected.
Here, where the celestial sphere
Spills its flares; the light which extinguishes
Distinctions between master and slave.
Here, where the fable goes silent
And the voice of deeds arises
And superstitions fade.
Here, where science makes haste
To read the solution of the problem
Which its very pronouncement scares.
She, who bears the reason through norm,
And on your lips, craves to hear
The august truth of the supreme voice.
Here it is now…after the impious fight
In which you managed to break the extremes,
The prison which held you into pain.
The light of your pupils no longer exists,
Your vital mechanism rests inert
Having resisted meeting its objectives.
“Misery and naught else!” they’ll say,
Who belief that life’s empire
Ends where death begins.
And supposing your mission ended
Will approach you, and in their eyes
They’ll send their eternal farewells.
But no!…Your mission isn’t complete here,
Nor is nothingness the point at which we are born,
Nor is nothingness the point at which we die.
Existence is circular and we do wrong,
When wanting to exact measurement
We assign as its limits the cradle and the grave.
The mother is solely the mold on which
We take our form, the evanescent form
With which we traverse the ungrateful life.
But neither that one forms the first
Which our being adorns, or is it
Its last, when it finally dies.
And there, onto life, in extraneous form,
Rain and summer’s power
Will make fecund with seeds your silt.
And rising from root to bud
You will go from the orchard to witness
Above ground the sovereign lab.
Perhaps returned changed as wheat,
To the same sad home, where the sad wife,
Who without bread, dreams of you.
In so far as the fissures of your fossa
Will see its depths open,
As larva turned to butterfly,
Which the trials of its uncertain flight
Will, to the unhappy bed of you loves,
Carry your death’s kiss.
And amid those internal changes,
Your cranium, full of a new life,
Instead of thoughts will bring forth flowering buds,
On which chalice, hidden will shine
The tear with which perhaps your love
Accompanied the farewell to your good bye.
The grave is the end of the journey,
Because the grave is where lies dead
The pent up flame of your soul.
But in that mansion, at which door
Our breath fades, there is another breath
Which again harkens us to life.
There strength and talent end,
There pains and pleasures end,
There faith and feeling end.
There terrestrial ties end,
And amassed the idiot and the sage
Sink into equalities’ terrain.
But there, where the spirit is depleted
And the mechanism dies, there
The being that perishes shoots forth another life.
The powerful and fecund abyss
Of the ancient organism takes hold,
And shapes and makes of the other an organic whole.
Abandon the righteous history,
And name without prudency, indifferent;
So may that name become eternal or simply end.
He, solely collects the mass
And changes objects, changes forms,
Takes charge, that it shall live perpetually forth.
The grave guards only bones,
But life, in its mortuary vault
Secretly Continues to feed.
That to the end of this transitory existence
To which our eagerness so much holds on to,
Matter, immortal like glory,
Changes forms; but never perishes.