Who cares about books
when the land is close to give birth
blind eyesores lacking of soul or hands?
To whom puts out the fire of thorns
the reason that never sank its roses into the chest
of those who bleed their memory, alienated?
What do those blind with pain care about pages
folding with their thousand eyes, hungry
for metaphysics placed so out of the reach?
Where are the answers sought for the blood
placed as a scream in the cell of those who die
alone in the loneliness of the forgotten ones?
Who answers? Who knows?
What will become of the dead sign
in the mouth or on the page
without any where without any when?
