At this time I wrote what I wrote
As an ordinary scribe who sharpen the trade of him during absorbent days
The bones of memory build an invisible cross
In which my words will suffer your route cross
Crucified by oblivion until you become nonexistent
But whoever wants to write must undergo sacrifice
He must feel in his own flesh the abandonment of the gods
Nobody can write and then declare himself innocent
Signs usually charge for their appearance in this world
And there is no writing without penance
That becomes the bread of every day
When he scrutinized
The rope bemols
That joyful martyrdom that was given to us
without we asked for it