So much grace in that black and white fur,
so ingenuous that it recalled a fluffy toy,
for little children,
who are looking more for the soft loving care of the embrace
than the games of precariousness
which the mind jealously hides
in its dark crypts.
But that look of innocence
which men have managed
to crucify in grief,
to make it hateful
so that it should at last be forgotten
like a miasma which has defiled the veils of power,
shot an arrow of beauty
which wounded the performance of the self
and ruined the stage sets of deceit.
And the spectator was struck with light
by the sight of the soul
which shot like an arrow the heart’s sound
uniting the beings of the world in one
that the self was left in the debris of the theatre,
for the theatre was not life
but only a reading,
which, however, was cut off wretchedly
as the costumes of the performance danced empty,
because the actors were shut up
in the prison of hate.
Then they rose up
those lost in the crowd of anonymity
who wished to honour the forgotten heart
which filled the void with lightning flashes of kindness
and knew that in a glance alone
all the drama of life
could be played out unexpectedly,
because this was not in search of flashes of greatness,
but of that hidden immensity
which love has hidden in the little things of the earth,
humbling the great.
Their gaze was united
with that look of innocence
which the arrow of life threw,
and they knew in their depths
that the sadness of this glance
was the knowledge of life
that the world was now alien to it,
because the meaning had been lost
and the outcasts were not able to withstand the darkness
in their fear,
their shame for the life which wandered pointlessly
on the outskirts of the world
and that desperation
which the unrelenting war of man
in the geopolitics of the species, the most ancient of all,
thrust into foreign land like a symbol of possession,
preparing new landscapes of extinction
against his own self,
which inanely boasted, hidden in the shadows,
about knowing the secrets
which the light injected into the whole world,
but whose brilliance it could not endure.
Because conceit never reflected
that meanings are free from
the errors and thoughts of the earth,
that they dwell in what we do
like birds which winged their way from celestial places
in order to build the future on these actions
which worthily lies in wait with gifts of fire in its hand,
which human acts have chiselled
on the fiery passing of time.
The Panda is there,
in a world which has become a prison
within an even greater prison.
Time stands in that gaze
and innocently looks on the worlds within the world
passing involuntarily to new knowledge.
But grief swept over the look of innocence,
because beauty did not illumine this passage.
The flags of its world fly at half-mast
with the stains of vanity upon them,
but an unlooked-for light dimly illuminates the shadows:
a human caring, but powerless in time,
which looks for armies of life to make
the future, which implacably awaits, relent.
Vanity is shaken far and wide
like deception against the arrow of truth.
But it was not the end that would count,
but that inmost unity which was left
on the roads of greed,
but roused up again alive
in few hearts which cherished
the meanings deeply hidden in the Panda of the World,
a little friend of life, which is always innocent,
and pulled down the towers of words
for the sake of a new world,
in which the Panda will laugh
and joy will sweep away sadness.