When I was the age of a landscape
I used to write letters
And that changed all the noise of solitude
A breeze coming from the sea was still a piece of childhood
Later,
there were so many winters followed by so many silences
I had thousands of days with fever and heat
an impenetrable black light — full of varicose veins —
fell upon my solid shoulders like a raw and symbolic pain,
a call to the sacred, to the memory of a more carnal time, full of guilt,
more imperfect, where breathing was an authentic act,
a formula of instinct, of abandonment or return, perhaps.
I dreamed — a change of scene — I took off my best suit, folded it over my knees,
and entered the forest like an animal inventing itself.
Jun 5, 2025
Jun 5, 2025 at 6:59 AM UTC
When I was the age of a landscape
I used to write letters
And that changed all the noise of solitude
A breeze coming from the sea was still a piece of childhood
Later,
there were so many winters followed by so many silences
I had thousands of days with fever and heat
an impenetrable black light — full of varicose veins —
fell upon my solid shoulders like a raw and symbolic pain,
a call to the sacred, to the memory of a more carnal time, full of guilt,
more imperfect, where breathing was an authentic act,
a formula of instinct, of abandonment or return, perhaps.
I dreamed — a change of scene — I took off my best suit, folded it over my knees,
and entered the forest like an animal inventing itself.
