They Dream

In a dream, I found myself inside a cave.

Illuminated by a faint summer light, I carved a poem on clear stones with chisel and hammer. I recited what I had carved, and once I had done this, I silently reviewed in my mind what I would carve and had not yet carved.

I contemplated, for instance, an idea: a dream...carving light onto a dark cloud...

In a dream, I find myself within the evening. Illuminated by the light of the night, I carve with light a poem of confusing, cumbersome, incomprehensible words onto a dark cloud.

Thunderbolts hang on the horizon.

It's my voice, it's my voice! I say to myself excitedly. It's my voice that declaims the signs woven on the divine carpet, the firmament.

I rest upon the rug.

I sleep.

I will dream, I imagine, that I am inside the barrel of a gun. I will be a bullet. A bullet traveling at extraordinary and uncommon speed.

Perhaps, you could say, approaching the speed of light. I will grasp time with my hands. Large hands that will be held by short and emaciated arms.

Arms that will sprout from the body of a bullet. From a bullet that will decide, once fired, to grasp time and, in its elongation, in that suspended time, as thin as a wheat tortilla, as malleable as the aluminum of a car in a crash, to trace words that have no beginning or end, indecipherable, dormant.

Words that float.

Words that are the flight path of mosquitoes in the air.

Words that will make the people of the future dream about their past.

Words that think they lie inside a cave.

One, illuminated by a faint summer light. One in which, on its rocks, dark clouds, are being carved into poems.

Words that carve words. Light that sculpts light. Words that sleep in wakefulness. They snore. They dream.