this is a nice place
with its reliefs made of signs and prayers,
the female heart digs up her ash laurels
and insects shake her fears in the leather of the landscape;
this is a place to sit and watch the universe
the simultaneous mouth with which silence knots ships
that go through nothing,
whistling an unfamiliar melody and feverish awaits
on the other side another way of dealing with existence:
maybe a cannibalism awaits us all,
maybe the unsteady thread of a hug awaits.
be it gray or green, the perpetual circle of remembrance.
this is a nice place
maybe too pretty
if we have accustomed the eye to the bone and the rag of
storms.
we would need a word to bind my broken sternum
weather.
maybe all this chance is nothing but a hole,
a nervous hare,
the tempered breath of life
that insists.