Buried is everything. That should be like that.
Justice has been done. Black suns are in their places and the wind
spreads the ashes that were kept in the urns of memory.
I am dust now.
Scattered in the fragments of the hours, in the eyes looked at, in
of tears, in infinite nights lightened by icy stars,
in cruel nightmares that return to me.
And that wolf sharpening the summer teeth, where dark loves
buried in lagoons, in barbarious images
and mirrors of illusions that reflect
the hours, always indigent.
Shadows of buried time:
so it should be: now that I am lonely, so lonely that I rime with
that come from underground tracks,
with ghosts and lost souls, I think that
the questions have not been answered,
and that everything was in vain: not even horror is expecting me.
I am free to leave the campus.
And that the Angelus touches beloved hearts.
Embedded, buried among the living and the death ones,
shadow among shadows, smoke of the existence,
the indigent arrows of fate are still upsetting me,
discontinous succession, remnant of unfinished wars I only take with
hunger of the infinite, the absolute word and the motionless
the impetrated soul, as it should have been.