We do not know, of these bodies that collide,
meaning, direction, remnants of will
crossed by dragons, by sudden desires.
What happened to the promise, the laurel.
The whispering clothes of the light.
And already in the dark,
essential things return to me,
the sad refrain of the blind moth:
the show is over.
Like an outcast god
Am I willing to grow old behind these lines?
I open my heart to my executioners:
we will not return, friends, to live.
