And I discovered my home
Immense
Filled with tiny spaces
where my thought could emulate the dream of a snail
Inside the fridge, near an onion that was crying with me, not speaking.
Irritated by the meager trace of my memory.
Defeated by the afternoon so cruel and of such a certain awakening
like a dry cut.
And a perennial sackcloth that carves an invisible and painful furrow on my skin.
Of the little escape,
of bad luck.
Of a heavy road
and an eternal silence.
Slippery like wild water, on moldy lichen.
Elusive
Stubborn.

A tongue carries the ingenuity of the cherub that does not exhaust its game,
and he summons me and from the tombs he takes me away and lets me penetrate through the uncertain bowl
- (as if Alice and the rabbits fell) -
-the rain, the dew, the fog fall-
and stripped inkwells seduce the tongue of the tribe
oblivious to exile.