On my skin that is a steppe
I get intense blows from the sun...
hit the whole body.

On the walls, obscene silhouettes,
portraits of bodies dissolving,
On the walls, what is there to say.

In the streets, macabre newspaper covers,
bloody and dirty letters,
oil and fuel stains.
Everything is incinerated in the streets.

They are the ruins of life.
Sores ... and nothing else.

the skinned man
takes refuge in the shadows
with the tragedy on the skin.
Bare skin sores.
Sores... and nothing else.

I leave scribbles in the caves again,
tomorrow will be registrations.
Sensations.
Nothing more.
Signs for survivors.

Locked in anonymous cages
men survive.
Anonymous cages with soft vibrations.
Mild vital signs.
We are this sore... and nothing else.
I offer to the shadows all my poetry,
last redoubts of my words.

The steppe on the skin,
the sores in the steppe.