Splitting tomorrow
Picking up the thread of the old arrangements
Draining from tearing the roadsides
Walking full time towards the spacing
Thinking little
There is some part of me left somewhere
The hour seems to have sound several times
It is too late for the beauties of the impossible
The languor of wisdom, the lack of enthusiasm
Having to learn them
The difficult leveling of disappointments
And the blurring, at the edge of the lips, of their footprints
Thinking little
Thinking only if my mouth permits it
That leads me to go back to the source
Listening upside not to leak away from myself
Withdrawing, recovering
Talking only to the mutisms
To tell them in a low voice
The words of an ignorance that protects
April 2011