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Tired, I raised up to my forehead
the scream
in the forest, and the day has turned bitter:
the machine gun burns my waist, rusts it,
and without being anything, I am all silence and grief.
I cried in the jungle, and
the salt in the night
from time to time in its sorrow, lights up
and brings up to its pollen and then dies.
Someone wants to sing between
the sobs,
someone pisses on the wound he had licked;
someone hides the faces of the dead
and everyone knows that no one is watching.
I relapsed:
as if I fell from the wing of a bird,
and at my feet
I saw a root acquiring the shape of a sword. |
