I wanted, truly, to believe
That this fire in the words and the eyes
Won't get our hands *****
Of clay, cement,
Of walls to face to,
That this same fire
Won't consume all the air we breathe,
Won't reduce to dust
All the ornament and all the content
That bonds us,
And all the remains
Are looks to the floor,
The first degree burns,
The second degree burns,
And those, more serious, but not painful,
Third degree burns.

I cannot believe
That this is a phony, fictitious,
Neither a harmless fire.
The awake of any sleeping volcano
Is more serious than those known, measured.

It is not the blow of the words
That make fire;
It is made in the stomach,
With all the acids ingested,
With poisoned food,
In the masochism of cultivating
Unnecessary pain,
In the sadism of wanting to see this pain
In any other eyes,
In the self denial as also a poison producer.

We are alone, naked, hands *****,
In cubicles, over a soft soil of the ashes,
Protected from everything,
Except ourselves.