The paint has started to peel off in the room
where life has folded
spiders
that weave the silence
that you used to populate
when the future did not exist
and the past was gray
Like the color of the walls.
One day it was white.
Someday they knocked on the door
and your name sprouted
as if it were born (as dahlias are born)
from the earth
of the chest
of the wound
scarred
washed
with the salt water
with which we irrigate the wine.

Sometimes I look at the fire
of the coal that was firewood
wood
tree
and forest.
sometimes i look
burning life.