The Dance I enter the occult liturgy of the cell, discover the fire, in the night, with my little rebel eyelid. Upon the table, in the basements, life is a conflagration: everyone drinks the same sweat and goes out walking without their shadows. There is blood on that table, a kiss made merchandise, a mourned bread and broken wings: everyone is behind the same song, humming, as if witnessing a birth.    Castellano Français      No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher or, in case of photocopyng or other reprographic copying, a licence from Canadian Reprography Collective (Cancopy), 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900 Toronto, ON M5E 1E5 Canadá. Ph 800-893-5777 / (416)868-1620 /Fax:(416) 868-1621. -- U.S. requests should be sent to Copyright Clearance Center, Inc. 222 Rosewood Drive Danvers, MA 01923 USA. Ph. 978-750-8400 / Fax 978-750-4470