SARA Poem by Henry Luque

Made of unreal elements, or secret,
your eyes are the entrance door to the labyrinth.
Light is not in the origin,
nor in the subtle blinking of the hydroelectric sources,
but in the movement you display with your own shadow.
Denser than myth but clear,
like the sun imprisoned in a windowless room.
The color of the dream in your forehead is of uncut flowers.
There is the vortex of time;
no profile calls for compassion;
the spotless sparkle of the fallen warriors
is a butterfly in your face.
Oracle and paradise, the entrails
are the vessel that contains the dilemma of the mirror.
Nothing touches you, save the lucidity of the flash of lightning
that learns from your steps; silence drinks in the mystery
and the leopard becomes a silvery trace of blood far up.
Eternal or modelled on the miracle, chance can do nothing;
death mentions you respectfully
and you are its lethargy, water on which all succeeds in looking at itself.
No one suspects, no one,
that the world is governed from your hair.