As through a wasteland
I have wandered day after day.
In the barren absence
of what is presaged
an unsaid murmur beats.
Some shape,
some shadow.
The recondite eviction
of everything what was offered to me
before the first throb,
after the last desertion,
lingers with the obstinacy of a convicted.
My mouth refuses resigning
to the precious silence
of a mere defeat.
A spout of words sealed the quietness
of days and nights,
and I stayed behind here,
at the hour when life
began to remember
who it was and which was the flesh
that should cover
the uncountable intricacies
of time.
