42

From the sadness that falls down,
from the pain that tires me,
from my office, from the mess of my room,
from these lonely man’s blankets,
from this paper, I extend my hand.
I can no longer only be
the one who says goodbye alone, who lives
of such naked separations
that not even hope
do they give in return; he who in a book
undresses himself and learns and teaches
the same poverty, page by page.
I am writing to you all
so you know my address,
in case you’d like to answer.
I write my letter to tell you
this is indeed what happens: we are sick
of time, of the air itself,
of the grief we breathe,
of the loneliness that falls upon us.
I just pretend to talk to someone,
to speak and listen. It’s no big deal.
With people who seem different
I walk, I work with every day;
and I do not greet anyone: I fear.
I know that should not be, that perhaps
someone needs me without knowing it.
I need them too. Now
I say it out loud, simply.
I wrote at the beginning: I extend my hand.
I hope someone understands it.