There is a throbbing,
sometimes,
a pressing breathing spell
in the elapsing
of the world.
A beating of wings broken
in the middle
of this relentless
flying to somewhere,
at some point in the time.
A frozen image,
a hand placed
facing some astonished
eyes
gazing at it,
lonely
and still.
Then an abyss
is opened
backward,
at the beginning of all,
at the end of a nothingness
preterite
and already forgotten
on the bottom
of a womb,
or in the hollowness
of a coarse cave.
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Nothing.
Just the voiceless
question from the first vertigo,
the first
consciousness.
What is it?
Where?
An ancient night
shrouding
into its mist,
rocking the primal
creature
facing a firmament
vast and motionless,
maimed
of voices and cords.
Then
only a crying.
A long
and eternal crying.
