In the fold of time
where the world is hidden
someone has closed a door.
A glance has been put in abeyance
among the night
into the heart of gloominess.
Beyond, steps resounding
unreachable by any voice now,
while a shadow,
always a shadow,
and the inveterate whisper
of distance is unfolding
and besieging the minutes, and hours, and days.
On a cheek is rolling down the dew
of life already gone and in open flight,
cracking under the tremor
of the light.
Who is it?
What does it seek?
Just a deep quietness.
And a wind moans,
nearly out of time,
in the overshadowed dawn,
and a mouth, singing,
creeps from asphalt to asphalt,
beyond the touch of a moon
quivering its wings,
meandering,
int the sleeping water,
dreaming.
