Are you genuine, I ask?
Your face, a stone wall,
I had been bruising my psyche against it.
I have no strength to bury myself alive,
in the mass grave of lies.
An ancient fear
descends from the hill.
Wants to marry a tree.
Or worship the terror
of a diaspora.
The vultures are dying every day,
We were talking of pregnancy,
desire and death.
The sparrows are gone.
Heat is rising.
I am starting the countdown.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The wild starling is silent. Every feather has been numbered. Every branch predicted by a theory of quantum proportions. But the rain would not listen, pulled down its pants and masturbated without passion and without shame.