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The death of the sun

The Helix nebula

Watching the "Helix" nebula, 
I thought a poem about the place where a star borns 
and the place where a star dies.

And inside
where all is clear and the gold  melts,
the foolish pride and the empty ego go away;
bouquet of blue, incense of light,
and taste
of radiant origin,
of fresh laughing.

Close by
black throb of smoke,
blood in orange
of an inconspicuous god.
of blowup's water,
glowing glimpse.
The rose blooms within the universe.

of time, and a sun has gone;
screwed emptiness, and cold's forest;
hop of miraculous spin,
a game, a coup, a pry, a cry, a verse.

If it were
just the vibration of the nothing,
or the archaic book of the night's luminaries,
the sweetest sketch would be the definite word,
and the burdensome panting of the Sun that dies in bed.

If it were
the tenderness of coldness,
the answer to those eyes that look up,
the space would be a word;
the emptiness, an scent;
the time, an eagerness;
and the wind, a song.

Jeremias Soler
If you want to read this poem on its original language:


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