Under desolate shadows
of sublime transfigurations,
oblivion survives as the most faithful,
the clearest of all memories.
In the theater of the soul,
it is the constant mirror
of an infinite regression
where mirage is nothing but reality.
Never again a whimsical parenthesis,
(intangible footnotes of absurd premeditations),
oblivion becomes the nascent child
of irrefragable fears and carves its name
in the sepulchral stone of “life.”
As such,
no longer will memory remain
the loyal palimpsest of reconstruction,
the stubborn nest of all denial:
At this abysmal threshold,
memory and oblivion coalesce
into the coldest of all infernal contradictions.
.
