Who dares to shout with your voice?
tremulous your song stands on the skin of my world,
looking for dry leaves in the dead square
that give rise to a flower of defeated years.
Who with a foreign dagger opens my hand for the line of life?
towards the bottom, where the wounded night falls,
and with it my roses, my flowers,
in the equivocal outburst of the insignificance of the clouds,
towards the bottom it goes, like the wounded night,
the eyes do not ask for water although thirst overtakes them.
And your voice?
Will your voice break this nothing that fractures the back?
this feeling moored
to the springs multiplied in your eyes without return,
pure bench and lost watch,
by lines of life everything escapes,
wanting to steal your feet to the road,
while at the bottom the wounded and fragile night rushes.
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