The dream flees the dream,
nothing can hold it, neither
rope, nor magnet, nothing. And this remains,
wood that burns and smokes, alone.
From the shoulder to the belly, a stake.
Of flesh with an air of flesh, a stake.
Years, days, years:
they strike,
they grind, devour, revile,
through a channel of silence,
with eyes open, mouth silent,
something broken that was alive, in the centre.
And if a poem, this one, all poems, are words,
are words enough, do they suffice?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem