Dedicated to Dedalus, the founder of the well-known people of artists, of dedalosers.
He starts with self and ends with self.
No halo announces him, it does not
follow him any tail of a comet.
From him it does not pierce out
a thing; that is why he does not have neither face
nor form. It would look like
the sphere, somehow,
which has the most body
covered with the narrowest skin
possibly. But he does not even have
so much skin as the sphere.
He is the complete inside
even without borders, he is deeply
But to be seen it is not seen.
It is not followed by the history
of his own movements, the way in which
the sign of a horseshoe follows
He does not even have present,
although it is hard to be imagined
the way in which it does not have it.
He is the complete inside,
the inside of the point, more crowded
in itself than even the point itself.
He does not crush by anyone
and by anything, because
it does not have anything gifted outside
through which he could crush by.
Here I sleep myself, surrounded by him.
Everything is the reverse of everything.
But it does not oppose him, and
much less denies him.
It says No
only he who knows Yes.
But he who knows everything
at No and at Yes has the pages torn.
And it is not only me who sleep here,
but the whole row of men
whose name I am called by.
The row of men peoples
a shoulder. The row of women
And they even have not enough space. They are
the feathers which are not seen.
I bent my wings and I sleep
the complete inside,
which starts with itself,
unannounced by any halo,
un-followed by any tail
of a comet.
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