Now, walking along these streets,
I can smell preterit lives curling up
among the rifts of these walls and paths
suffocated under concrete and asphalt.
The ancient livable days stand still
to look at me as I pass by lost in my thoughts
clumping together as a sediment of yearnings
and hopes slipping away
while the time moves on.
The mirror of silence reflects
its indiscernible figures in the gleaming haze
announcing the becoming of a twilight,
at the end of a route besieged
by the memory of oblivion.
The doors of the past remain
faraway and voiceless, condemned
by questions chipped among openings
without a glimpse of an answer.
I relinquish of names, gestures,
the immateriality of dreams
and I sit down to wait for the day pouring
into a night dived in an unspeakable aphony.
Nothing grows inside it.
Not even my shadow.
On these streets
throbs only the remote
echo of something that dwelled the crucible
of a recondite word,
beyond another life.
