The virgin trails dream of passion.
Sleepwalkers explore the jungle
with indecipherable faces
of those who can curl up in the shadows.
They lay their bodies on the ground and penetrate it
who await their hopeful outbreak.
They dream of making metamorphosis possible
remove organic and inorganic material,
bake life in the moisture of the belly,
regenerate earth and blood.
The nauseating vapor stopped your step.
The fire is beating buried
and stirs the black belly,
kneads the submerged dark matter.
Even the shadows that represent silence,
and the doors to other dimensions
in the heart of the jungle.
Voices multiply beauty and pain:
the child prays for his father... and for his mother,
the walks around the house, the ball and the laughter
in the park, the races,
the zinc collapsing with grief.
They miss the mythical silence of the jungle.
Beauty and pain reproduced in the faces.
An infinite gallery of photos
consumed in mass graves.
There are no witnesses of weakness in times of war,
nor children in battlefields.
Beauty sprouts with the painful stem
of the absent bodies.
nourished by pain
absolute silence steals the world.
The silence beats so softly,
softly refreshes the thought in the labyrinth
and stops the restless beasts
as if time stopped.