"For the righteous Lord loves justice. The virtuous will see his face."
Every time I unshut my eyelids, time and I enter a race,
I drag my body out of bed, go to the bathroom to wash my face,
brushing off, like it is dandruff, the feeling of being misplaced.

What do I see lifting my gaze? There stands reflected in the mirror
an emulsion of an unmitigated taker and a poor giver,
and if there aren't any Gods, I know he is a firm believer
that the beauty of the word is nowhere but in the ears of the hearer.

All I see in that reflection is a young man, completely lost
in the sound of old people outside playing a game of draughts,
and on his neck, a rosary from a sailor, all chipped and coarse,
pulling him down to the full basin, with a weighty lyrical cross.

His eyes are empty, on his pale forehead there is a suspicious gloss
like that of polished marble, the reflection is a cemetery of thoughts.
Every second I spent writing, I am now doubting its worth,
all amounted up to nothing, now a mass grave for thousands of words.

I understand that the misfortune of a tongue that is so ill-fitted
comes with the duty of not vocalising everything, keeping it lidded,
so with my memories on paper and with their purport still vivid,
i comprehend the gravity of all the verbal sins i have committed.