Treasures of the Tomb

You are the connoisseur of Truth
because you desire not only

the Light but the Darkness,
not only stars of heaven
but oozing treasures of the tomb.
You are willing to decompose
in order to find what never changes.
You are willing to stink.
And stay.
You are not content with the quiet repose
of the Answer.
You want the piquant yearning
of the Question too.
The fertilizer roses come from
is your first home.
You lounge among mushrooms
with the spicy white worm.
Your rainbow does not hover above,
it pierces the eye and gets covered
with blood like a scimitar.

It penetrates the womb

to test which color you are.

Chartreuse means boy,

amaranth girl,
cerulean someone
in between.
I am speaking about the rainbow
of this breath,
not as it was in the sky,
but as it punctures your lung,
warm and crimson with
uncertainty,
your death trickling down,
clothing silence
in the song of your ancestors.
From the rattle in the throat
to the drum in the egg,
you fall and rise.
Your being is not afraid
to become.
Your becoming is not afraid
to be.


Artist: Pablo Amaringo