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Impatience | A Poem by Alberto Quero

What secret I am being revealed at this hour of
din and presentiment?
Time only promises me a whitish horizon:
I try to pull the intermittence of something posterior,
some that may be decisive and permanent
and I may name in this search,
recent and extended.
I seek and I don’t mind resisting it,
for I can overcome any scrutiny.
Have I been told anything hidden at this moment
of hunger and doubt?
I go through the wide paths of things that
still don’t happen,
the harsh declivities of a waiting that points at me.
Have I been initiated in a rite
that I am to remember
with frequency and quietness?
I furtively prepare to slide in what is distant:
now I am what I wait for
Will my desire be enough for the travel?

Do I hand in something or do I just survive
in the near stagnation of these days?
Perhaps I only hear:
I am still flooded by the ample delay
of this instant, acute and complicated.
Decipher and acquire I say now,
But where does this track,
sometimes impossible,
of so many occult languages lead to?
I wonder if knowing the slow procedures of memory, its vast meanders will be enough.
I will add a moving to the stream
that surrounds me,
or I will wait for a core that will summon me.
Who is hidden behind this hour,
open and endless?
Only my invocations and me: artifacts for the surpluses.
I accept time and secrecy;
I listen, but only when it stops raining.
I draw all that converges and what I forecast
at this narrow moment for I only dissolve:
I dwell in the absence, and I hope it will be ephemeral

Should I wait for another journey?
After much, I am given the chance to remain hushed,
hidden as he who is obsessed
by a covered search.
Time is the only enigma
I can think of now:
everything else is just daring and tremendous,
lean and flexible
Now I am obsessed with a prodigious claim:
every astrolabe I own points at the same petition.
This is the waiting I have to pray for,
here are the emblems of my anxiety:
under my dreams they lay,
returning is the word for my haste.

Elusiveness I call it now,
lightness and perhaps the absence of what
is the most paused thing.
I must confess I constantly look at the sky,
trying to recover a colossal sign:
the unknown star I am supposed to navigate under.
These days I am remembering myself
while I still look for what is wise and unconditional.
Everything should be less distant,
or so I hope:
I currently spend the hour of my childhood,
still unfinished,
avoiding my large anxiety
What knowledge may wait for me,
I wonder now,
when I have discovered I belong
to a foreign race?
I shield myself in this distance
that has now become certain.
I hide myself in a litany, surreptitious and clandestine
that I daily repeat
during the empty hours of the waiting.
Will I be able to transform the tardiness in imminence?
I would rather not call fear this agitation
that sieges me,
only impatience.

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