XVIII

Under the burnt light
your eyes are cold seeking
these October hours
and their garden stained in gin,
dry leaves, silences
that speak of us as they fall.

Because if it no longer exists,
although no one worries about his solemnities,
there are nights in which the truth,
that uncomfortable guest,
arrives and leaves us dirty, empty, without tobacco,
like in a restaurant of chairs mouth-up
and about to close.

                      “They are waiting for us.”

I know not how to answer you,
only that I am conscious of my own irony,
because man is also a wolf with his own self.

                      “They are waiting for us.”

Black and tall, silent vultures,
they wait for us, those clouds in the street.