Centipede

I have taken refuge in the darkest animal
That drops stones into the echo of mountains
I have searched then for a thirsty mouth in the plain
Where the night gave up laughing
Since the house of silvery silence was abandoned by the sky
I have taken on the swagger
Of a philosopher who in his taciturnity polishes
The toes and the mouths of the birds
Who scatter the slippery rocks
In the water onto the sand
And yet a part of me remains
That has not been razed to the ground

Whatever way I may be hanged by my hair from a hanger
Whatever way I may sleep without falling or growing
That is the way it will enter into the sleep of my dreams
Into the mornings of the fruit on the trees
On the borders of great longevity a centipede
With its backbone jealous of statistical data
Scratching out the trajectory of survival