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Together we’ll dust ourselves off, 

lick the darkness together, 

clench the silence

with everyday omens.

Together,

the shapes 

of our feet

pass through

oblivion’s delirium.

And I mean night

like a stern walk through your body,

like an inextricable map of startled voices,

like a whiff of parched smoke,

like an endless stream of hours. 

Reordering life:

will it be like laying a tablecloth across the table?

In that case,

maybe,

it won’t be so difficult to die. 

The hour broke forth

the one when they sing

the veins of your body.

Reliving a worn-out walk,

you watched the road like a prison:

only earth dancing before your eyes.

Everything was a ritual:

you were climbing the wall to taste flowers,

speaking from the water’s depths,

calling out to stars

to light up your salt cracks. 

The road could be a lie,

though this wasteland of a dream

offers shadows for you to rest in.

You expose your body to fickle rust

devised to settle here,

in your timid hands.

It’s not enough, the calm,

not even an insect’s light 

can pierce your walls,

you fall asleep in search of truth,

verses falling

like old coins 

on the ground.