From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.
What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?
Let us forget with generosity those who cannot love us
But from each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.
Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?