The Petrifying Petrified

This, folks, is my favorite poem. It's by Octavio Paz, and it was originally written in Spanish. What follows here is the end of the poem, about 20% of the whole thing.

During my years as a professor, I particularly appreciated the line "The university is a muck full of frogs."

		Images buried
in the eye of the dog of the dead
in the blind well of origins
		whirlwinds of reflections
in the stone theater of memory
whirling in the circus of the empty eye
of red brown and green
			swarms of flies
ideas ate the deities
		the deities
became ideas
	great bladders full of bile
the bladders burst
		the idols exploded
putrefaction of deities
		  the sanctuary was a dungheap
the dungheap a nursery
			armed ideas sprouted
ideolized ideodeities
		 sharpened syllogisms
cannibal deities
		ideas idotic as deities
rabid dogs
	dogs in love with their own vomit

We have dug up Rage
The amphitheatre of the genital sun is a dungheap
The fountain of lunar water is a dungheap
The lovers' park is a dungheap
The library is a nest of killer rats
The university is a muck full of frogs
The altar is Chanfalla's swindle
The eggheads are stained with ink
The doctors dispute in a den of thieves
The businessmen
with fast hands and slow thoughts
negotiate in the graveyard
The dialecticians exalt the subtlety of the rope
The casuists sprinkle thugs with holy water
nursing violence with dogmatic milk
The fixed idea gets drunk with its opposite
The juggling ideologist
		sharpener of sophisms
in his house of truncated quotations and assignations
plots Edens for industrious eunuchs
forest of gallows	paradise of cages
	    Stained images
         spit on the origins
    future jailers    present leeches
     affront the living body of time
         We have dug up rage

On the chest of Mexico
		tablets written by the sun
stairway of the centuries
		   spiral terrace of wind
the disinterred dance
	anger panting thirst
the blind in combat beneath the noon sun
		thirst panting anger
beating each other with rocks
	      the blind are beating each other
the men are crushing
		the stones are crushing
within there is a water we drink
				bitter water
water whetting thirst

		Where is the other water?

Where is the other water? This is revealed in the final verse of Blanco, generally acknowledged as Paz's finest poem:

The spirit
is an invention of the body
The body
is an invention of the world
The world
is an invention of the spirit
No		           Yes
  the unreality of the seen
tranparency is all that remains
Your footsteps in the next room
the green thunder
in the foliage of the sky
			You are naked
like a syllable
	like a flame
an island of flames
the passion of compassionate coals
the world
	a bundle of your images
drowned in music
		Your body
spilled on my body
	brings reality to seeing