Once again.


The night condenses sharply
among the sick bell towers that
stay playful for so many nights of oblivion.


There is a lament in space
that separates the immense universe
that builds my multiple existences.


I am sorry that it must not
be but enjoys being alive and that
the moon shines, and that
tears slide its bittersweet taste to reality.


Once again.


The ship migrates
from the ocean to condense on land and
be a serenely sterile being.


Wandering journey that
must be the perfect reflection of
so many absences that when recreated build our spirits.


Once again.


There is no muteness that
resists the monotonous crackle of bonfires,
night fires that must be but
withered resonances of those haunted, perpetual vapours
of which he loves to be more God and less project.


Again, it rains days, weeks, years...
and my hands keep
sliding out of nowhere to be this:
illusions of calm, vague nights.