He asked to be listened to.
The answer hung in doubt.
The result is disturbing
there is loneliness in a space without doors.

In a space without doors
the stream of an open faucet.
The guilty hope
the incipient illusion

Subject to your existence and your existence to me.
the ground contains me
condemned to the voice,
even if no interlocutors arrive.

The same isolated voice, the same cold.
The pitiful and strange sound.
The cold can be residence
of all the whiteness of the snow.

In the snow blindness
there is a brother, in the inhospitable land,
avalanche a brother
indistinct voice of the storm.

The voice is storm and destiny.
The storm shatters time.
You are in cells of the south of the soul.
You carry crumbs of the voice.

Share the bread of intuition
translated into an absurd condemnation.
Show your clean hands
carrying a hundred years of silences.

He plays with the silence in the wastelands,
in the distance of sounds,
in the tremor of rubbing
he renews the words.

He impetuously begs to be heard.
The answer hung in doubt.
He inhabits the place that allows him to look,
inhabits the trust that allows it.

He is there in the glow.
On the snow route
has the doors open
but everything is storm.

The weak figure of him dissipates into nothingness.
He is an almost imperceptible whisper.
They seem empty hands behind the snow
the steady hands of a brother.