Opening the Window of History
Penelope gazed into the horizon,
beyond the murmuring tangle of wool.

Careful not to be toppled mid-flight
by the weaving of seagulls,
Ulysses placed his foot
on the staircase of sirens' songs,
but, from the ages,
off the library shelf,
fell,
with the fresh noise of covers,
the novel,
well-vascularized,
by James Joyce; it collapsed
into Ophelia's timid courtyard,
onto the workers.

The gods stepped aside, avoiding the pages.
They might have been swept away by currents
into improper verses.
They might have found themselves face-to-face
with angels,
and so, would have lost their wings,
burned by halos.

Writing strikes the shore called "Man,"
with memories,
carving deeply into thought,
until it compels him
to uncover himself,
like a ship,
before the vast solitudes.