Even the loneliest of men
has need of man
no matter how sullen the creature may be,
Far in the woods she stands still,
the sight becomes stiff and full of sweetness
towards the gregarious city that always houses
the hope of a friend
Poor man, poor us, who walk the days with the skin ready to caress and in the mouth a mist that
hides the garden in need of the soul.
I who, like so many, always eagerly seek
the lonely path where the flowers sleep,
not without anger I sometimes discover that urgency
of the human footprint. And yet
when a word searches for me in the forest
I reject it as if it were
the guttural ode of a serpent.