and then I gather in a trunk the holy clothes and the holy foods
and I left
somewhere not too far away,
because my road was written in ink,
after I delved in an eye for a piece of time, only at the edge of the eyelid.

today I still live within myself
and it is very hard for me to go away
where the soul is not a queen and the reason does not usurp it

it is too much sun and the moon cries with a scent of death