The road becomes long, lonely, but attractive. The Gypsy carriages, blond gipsies, crowded on both sides of the road: hens, dogs and podencos are loose, as are scrap metal. Someone watches you inside the trailers, but you see nothing more than children with dirty, greasy and indifferent faces. The Jewish cemetery holds a burial: silent rabbis, shadows of the tomb, cry without crying. Carefully slide the box: there is no lack of cover bars. The other houses are closed, franked by something mysterious. Faceless gargoyles, demon sphinxes and mutilated animals, defend the porticos. No one answers. The sunrise is majestic; first a radiant sun, then traitorous clouds that drown him, then the rain, and all in a span of time. A cross joins the feelings of fear, cravings and time. TIME ... there is time ... nobody watches over you, but someone sees you; you are alone but your spirit increases with a premonition higher than that of freedom. At last you see it: what everyone is afraid of at night ... HELL FIRE CLUB.
The path is slippery, and the feet lose their balance in the passage through the mud. The climb becomes endless. A girl broke into her. Your grave and the criminal rock look at you with suspicion. What does it feel like to tread death or lean on something mortal? Nothing. At last the mainland: it rains heavily, and behind is the descent. ANSIAS, uncontainable anxieties: no one waits for you, you convince yourself of it. Before me some ruins: here they say that the devil lives. There is a roof and it rains inside ... what a great devil! The moisture seized the stone, the darkness was already reigning. The blind would not see, and the visionaries would blind themselves to the sight: a sad Dublin, a wild sea, and old mountains.
From the balcony I could see everything: I cried, I thought I would dominate it: the submissive silence of the trees would suffice ... it continued raining. The night fell suddenly, had lost the notion of time: ran, was afraid. FEAR, accustomed fear of what does not exist. I slipped and got lost ... I did not mind staining. Behind, and between branches an Irish bull appeared without horns. No, he was not the devil! The headlights of a car glimpsed my crazy silhouette. No, it was not me who ran in the middle of the road! No, it was not me who thought I was the master of my being! I did not notice the cemetery: they were all silent; but the dogs that kept them awake and alert to the gypsy misery already forgotten in the cold of the night.
Barefoot, next to the fire of the fogaril and a hot cup in my hands, numb to the aroma of tea, watched warriors in the flames. My face burned. He had not seen the devil but he had found God.
(Firhouse-Dublin, August 1978)
The path is slippery, and the feet lose their balance in the passage through the mud. The climb becomes endless. A girl broke into her. Your grave and the criminal rock look at you with suspicion. What does it feel like to tread death or lean on something mortal? Nothing. At last the mainland: it rains heavily, and behind is the descent. ANSIAS, uncontainable anxieties: no one waits for you, you convince yourself of it. Before me some ruins: here they say that the devil lives. There is a roof and it rains inside ... what a great devil! The moisture seized the stone, the darkness was already reigning. The blind would not see, and the visionaries would blind themselves to the sight: a sad Dublin, a wild sea, and old mountains.
From the balcony I could see everything: I cried, I thought I would dominate it: the submissive silence of the trees would suffice ... it continued raining. The night fell suddenly, had lost the notion of time: ran, was afraid. FEAR, accustomed fear of what does not exist. I slipped and got lost ... I did not mind staining. Behind, and between branches an Irish bull appeared without horns. No, he was not the devil! The headlights of a car glimpsed my crazy silhouette. No, it was not me who ran in the middle of the road! No, it was not me who thought I was the master of my being! I did not notice the cemetery: they were all silent; but the dogs that kept them awake and alert to the gypsy misery already forgotten in the cold of the night.
Barefoot, next to the fire of the fogaril and a hot cup in my hands, numb to the aroma of tea, watched warriors in the flames. My face burned. He had not seen the devil but he had found God.
(Firhouse-Dublin, August 1978)
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