The astronomer lifts the veil covering cold winterscapes

Of starry skies and their painters,

His lantern filled with barely enough oil

To illuminate illegible letters on grey stone

Announcing a blast of sun rays,

And meets white death in the skirts of the veil

Squared only by a darkness deeper than his echo.

The testimony of poets and saints

Does not dazzle, its frail starlight

Buried too deep in the distant night sky

To be able to illuminate anything on earth

Or to warm the starved stone-cold body

Of modern man and his prostheses

Lying in the snow of yesterdays’ war trenches

Only the little stargazer looks at the night sky

With eyes bursting with the ecstasy of nature’s silent orgy

Stepping on flowers whose perfume and exuberance

Can power twenty nations’ plants forever

Enthusiastic prostheses building more organs

To get closer to the eternal fire of infinity

Burning where no eyes have been

The autobiography of the poet is faint

Growing fainter as the sun of the prosthetic god

Waxes larger than life and more luminous than words

As the saints’ distant, unbuxom cilium light

Aerated by silent explosions on aloof stars

Raises corpses in the snow with living words

Not stars, but vessels of Christ’s living blood

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