“........ left blanks in their writings, 
I mean for things they didn't know" 
(Ezra Pound, in  the Canto, XIII) 
 

                    ¿What else haven't I been able to conceal?           
                                        

If I have learned the answers,    
they ask me no questions;    
if they actually ask me,    
I won't be able to answer, for    
the answers were ——    
I can't remember where I've put them away.    
                            
                            
                         An answer,    
                         if a good answer it is, must be    
                         faster than drawing    
                         a weapon: the knife, the club, the cudgel,    
                         the letting-go of the trap, of the stiletto,    
                         of the thorn, or of the casting net for catching    
                         the fish, and stealing    
                         the notion in the air,    
                         because, also, by silence,    
                         a silenced    
                         indignation can be.   
                                 
                                 
To speak is compulsive:    
challenging the sounds, receiving them back,    
bony-eared, listening "deep-inside",    
to the pulsation of the bells,    
and receiving,    
making the echo to return    
and the words to return, for returning    

                              — talk to oneself, why not?—-  

they guard us from the answers    
never given.      
                            
                            
They say there is a legal customhouse    
of the answers;    
for traveling abroad, the passport    
and a book   
[who knows, couldn'n it be     
the Sand Book, viejo Borges, the Argentinian?]           
                             
                         vast book of extensive,    
                         forgotten annotations;    
                         for that one, the reply, quick,    
                         ready on the tip of the tongue    

                                             - one cannot hesitate -          
                            
                         quicklime that burns in water         
                         

A fiery answer, if it does exist,    
how dare one voice it    
if his interlucutor is terrible and impatient,    
and seems to make fun of it,    
and knows how to shake    
his head—his staring eyes fixed—    
right and left, his head and his smile,    
while, on your trembling lips,    
your words and answers    
foster fear,    
and are drowned in tears.   
                           

                               
                         Ite,          
                         incendiate, said Loiola...         
                                 
                           
¿ How come,          
how can one set fire,         
take your choice: matches, napalm or gasoline ?         
                           
                           
                         Better wet firewood, Bruno,    
                         doesn't catch fire easily;    
                         it moans, and smokes, and weeps,    
                                                                          only,    
                         and perhaps it might've given you:         
                                                                       time.       
                             
                                 

To rub two stiks together, to beat a night-long rhythm    
to kindle    
the ritual    
to gather the flame with slight breath and some little sticks    
                         dried up    
                         demands    
                         a lot of time    
                         and    
                         I need the answer    
                         here, quick, the long-fire big tongue,    
                         broad-tongued chameleon    
                         and the interlocking    
                         now, now, for    
                         soon shall i be the distant memory of a man,    
                         nothing but the memory of one who    
                         has died.    
                            
                            

Have I been the accomplice of some tardiness,    
                         the fool of some haste    
                         — and the answer —    
                         where,    
                         where the answer ?     
                                
                               
                             
                             In the haystack,  
                             they said,  
                             among the needles,  
                             dried-up straw,  
                             instant-fire heart:  
                             whitewash, mortar, caustic, chalice,  
                             shut up,  
                             to keep quiet— 
                                                  
                                                  
                             So I did keep quiet. 
                                                  
For so many times,  
the best answer  
is in John,  
chapter 18,  
versicle 38,  
perhaps  it's really better to have the certainty