in my homeland,
the fishermen widows
salt their hearts
and hang them to dry.

in my homeland,
they say there is a cliff
where the moon gives
birth to the ******

and where the wind
whispers and howls
until the sails
get lost in the far.

what is the matter,
he asks,

unable to see,
maybe unwilling,

that there is
no matter
to nothing.

days' rock.

heavier, as
Sisyphus' one.

i'll go to sleep,
now.

please.

i lit a cigarette
in the cold night

in the window glass
a light burns to
the pace of a lighthouse

i think of you and
drift in a flickering sky

As the night unfolds
its quietness,
and distance
is silenced,
and movement
is carpeted
into echoing
rumbles,

a sight unveils
all once blinded
by day light,
by the hazardous
ransom of rush,

and it appears
before me
what lays
within
a trap of sand,
breaking down
the bones of will,
grinding morrow
into the narrowness
of a held back
gesture,

it appears
before me,
naked
like a stillbirth,

my solitude.

they come
filthy
cursing

a swarm
in a hailing grasp

fear stains
cripples
rapes

we learn
the dormancy
of the ripped

took all of my belongings
- those words i borrowed
for staging myself -, packed
it all, pinned it a note,
here's to us, if ever,
went for a dock
(no lighthouse please,
the night needs a rest).