When we don't ask
and we have too many answers
the road appears so flat,
the horizon so sharp, so clear
the look, so candid
transparency, so innocent
we preface the diagnosis and
the hypothesis and postpone the arguments.
The doubt is circumscribed to the object
It's… It really is…
but only an abstract construct,
banished, trembling, in our hands.
So close, so familiar
as oblivious to its charm.
Identity is a field
practically immeasurable, inexplorable,
nor the subject itself
usually embarks on the journey
to discover, to discover
of the king's invisible garments
out of fear or out of truth or out of shame.
due to ignorance
it stays safe, it's a niche.
It's that there's so much hidden,
it's so natural to cover the sun
with the nights