Title:

IO SO poem by Osvaldo Ramous

read by E. Nacinovich (2:15)

Text:

Man, I know that in the future

perhaps very short

everything of me will go to catacatafascia,

and what I have written and now I write

not even a comma will be known.

Nevertheless

I hang back on to the tormenting game

with reasonless insistence.

Building in my mind

houses, ramparts, dams, mausoleums,

bizarre architecture;

I'm tracking every day

with the vibrating fingers of imagination

new constellations,

dialogue with people

whose name is not registered

in no registry book.

Because, deep down, I believe

that our words, dreams, deeds

will melt into nothingness,

but that there will finally be something,

Maybe a wind started

from a clump of stars

nestled between the vertices of the unknowable,

that of all the small stones

Inconsistent

disintegrated from our ruins

he will make other combinations

much more complex than those

Imagine by us,

and that somewhere a part

of what has already been ours

yet it will survive.