A WINK TO PARIS PISHMISH [RRL]

Paris Pishmish, one of the pillars of Mexican astrophysics, died twenty three years ago. A friend’s good will introduced us, and admiration was in order. Just by skimming through some rough drafts, she caught the understated and commented on it with chaste causticity. Pretending not to see, she pointed to the unrequited plan that set the writer’s hand in motion.

Unfortunately for the writer, the gods dried up the richness of an encounter. As in a daily hitch, death preferred her. Maybe, that’s why things have been so arid since, and memories intensified the feminine light from the divine darkness, burning within readings seasoned by life.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paris_Pi%C5%9Fmi%C5%9F

The shrub and the dirt

Of the daily path

Are its paltry joy.

Silence.

The passer-by

Carrying his sack of words

Murmurs on his own.

Stars encode their self-

restrained eagerness

In a high tide of secrecy.

Silence.

The prisoner within

the bowl of the mind

Sweats out of tune.

Between the sun and the moon

Who sensed the glide of light

Within your cadenza, Paris?

Silence.

It'll be a gravid virgin

Among the cracks of the ergo

Your forgotten name.