(In homage to the Comte de Lautréamont)
Old sun, I salute you
when you appear in the center of the sky
like a yolk sunny-side-up
surrounded by white insidious cloud.
I salute you, Sun of the polluted city,
when everyone passes
cursing the heat,
not even giving you a glance.
I salute you, Sun of the cold walls
and deserter rooms
where nobody lives nor looks in.
I salute you, unique eye,
of night overall
I salute you, old Sun of the jovial face,
forever different and similar to yourself,
grand solitary, handsome in your blue kingdom.
I salute you, Sun of the vital rays,
you who move with a musical measure
through this ancient sky.
I salute you, Sun of the icy mornings
brimming like an anemic yolk
over the horrible buildings.
I salute you, Sun of the bloody afternoons
when your beams beat death’s tom-
toms on the temple walls
I salute you, sun of the playful mysteries
when your thoughts prance like golden
jaguars on the mountain peaks.
I salute you, Sun of the blind
when you descend along black hands
playing stringed instruments in the street.
I salute you, sun of the bruised lips
and wounds that never close,
as you alight on the bodies of the dead.
I salute you, Sun of the total eclipses,
when, encircled by the dark,
you see us, inside out.
Old Being, I salute you,
of my night overall.
Aridjis, Homero. “Old Sun I Salute You.” Poemas solares: Solar Poems. Trans. George McWhirter. San Francisco: City Lights Books, 2010. p. 63.