And so: the stones were already thrown
into the sea. The stones, the words, the ephemeral
treasures of the spectre. In its mansion
a terrifying unknown quietude
flourishes – a quietude without gestures;
neither gadgets nor strange rites with
which to cheat the great devourer.

And this quietude is not death: silence,
but from a null voice, the stopping
of a failed pendulum, freedom
of he who dwelt in the cellar. The door
remains ajar. The sun is new.
And some seeing eyes watch the sea.

Raúl Gustavo Aguirre