Numa

I saw people splitting themselves
in seventeen, dying to see and listen
to Numa,
the one who hurls sermons in the air
and sows mustard seeds
for, he is the prophet of himself,
he is pure hermeticism, solemn hermit,
and even the trembling figs await him
night and day;
he approaches them with pathos
ready to devour them and be devoured
in return in each of his atoms.

Precious lores
are piled up in his heart like gems.
Feelings and emotions are jammed within him
like concepts of a minimal, essential poem
that implodes in the stomach when
its membrane blushes.

If you happen to see
a sundial rod growing wings
of light on the horizon,
there comes Numa.
Let him mow and collect your time;
although deprived of your sixty
grains of sand, you will thrive.