XXIV

What will they be like, the lights of which you speak?

Do not ask about me.
Write about names of cities,
announce your clumsiness so as to die in them,
so as to hide me inside their birds' wings.

In your language you tell me
the weary presence of a strange
occurence of strange trees,
of weird buildings, old theaters without an appointment,
where the only familiar spectacle
is the stolen,
greedy illusion that calls you
as you cross the street.

You tell me I walk like the crowds
and the voice freezes us quicker than water,
and over the ice dream words
loaded with cities,
because they know we are weak,
capable of living a lie
that hides too much loneliness.

Here, I too hope they will embrace me,
that once I will be embraced
by some spirit.