I am in love with death. Death the sublime rhetoric of all hope.
I came up to the border, and watched, quiet.
Down by the shore, a figure lay still, dark against
the pale yellow sand. The ocean came and washed it,
to and fro, with its regular breathing. The Monster is sleeping.
By the rocks, he waited. Until he could no longer sit,
facing the eternal, his being shook with
emptiness. He walked around the rocks,
pacing, looked at the creatures that sucked life out of dead stone,
He waited for something to happen. An extraordinary event.
In my sleep, you come, witch of blessed beauty. With your teeth you calm
my suffering, with your tongue you feed me poison. In the morning,
upon the blue pillow, your head rests like an innocent creature, unborn,
and your face is full of childhood.
Gauguin painted all night and when dawn appeared in the far sky
, the cold waves rustled with work. He stepped away
from the grids of the taught burlap and looked through the window,
before going outside. He threw away what was left of the
liquor on the table, colored like his fever, and walked towards the sand.
He came upto the edge of the sea and felt its cruel coolness with his feet.
He plunged both of his hands in the water, and grabbed two handfuls of sand.
And as he brought them to his eyes and the background of the ocean
filled all space, he sobbed like a child.