Feel abstract guilt
but you blame in the end
in the middle of dark labyrinths
is lost
among vague, almost dead vines.
Imprecise full of obstacles
can't find the right reason
even if I glimpse the door
the compassion
his shoulder blades hurt from carrying
an invented cross.
He waits for that voice with rays of light
His eyes burn on a transparent day.
Comfort has the wind as an instrument
that fits in the ear,
in the hands that pick up the vibration of the body,
in the language that measures the world
and he summons the shudder.
The area I'm talking about has a specific enclosure,
a precise latitude and longitude,
a mirror scan
and an infinity, a journey, a path,
and the containment of all this universe
through an invisible network.
The tremor I aim at does not stop
and it is more intense the further away.