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It’s a cube.

A cube made of stone,

muted sounds, flashes;

translucid, unlucid;

things move there,

against the glassy air;

callers colors echos

squared light, static noon.

Bards birds keep it.

The sun kip.*

Incapable of music,

a non dancing boat.

The float of a buoy.

Some children.

A ball.


Everything is there

and nothing cares

full of meaningless.


The afternoon is deaf.

It’s a cube.


The miss of your saliva,

the milk of your pelvis,

the bite in your hair… Just air.


Your feet are gods.

Your hands are odes

to an affair against the odds.


Your hair is the night; deny it

the moon of blues and silvers,

but in the end it’s the night,

it’s the night there

and its full look


confused to your look

what prevails.

Your hair is the flight

to the abyss of a miss.


Your hair is the night;

a blinded lion's nightmare;

the sea's devour of the shadows.


I reach you unreachable;

unreachable I lose your hand.


Don't ask me how I feel;

I don’t believe in feelings:

having feelings, nurturing

feelings past and future.


I only fill me out now,

at the present time.


And sometimes what

fills me up is like being

immersed in a cube.

A cube.

The abyss of your miss

obscuring the bright day.



Igor Buys

Ilha Grande, 06/10 de março de 2021.

Escrito originalmente em língua inglesa.




*According to the British philologist Walter William Skeat (1835 - 1912), "kip" comes from Old English "kippian".


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