And death will have a voice
that will say the painful end,
the goodbye between sufferings,
the worthless peculiarity of God
observing the yes or the no,
the one to zero,
power or abandonment
the sadness of the self.
And death will be
what the grandparents called destiny,
and compassions will come in the shape of patterned blankets
and the truth will be
the eye that spies on a European landscape
brought from Africa.
And death is a draft
where the repeated words
they are not a bother
but speech,
put against the wall
in the night of november
sang the anguish
their way of living
And only I listened