GREAT SOUL IN MY COUNTRY 2 © 2008

Speaking has become an emptiness, an echo without meaning,

I prefer writing as a source, a lost refuge,

Words in the current, carry the cold nourishment,

And upon arriving as an idea, they become a shadowy river.

In majestic waves, they spill on the vast shore,

Sliding gently over the sand, where they love,

Blending with the grains, they fade endlessly,

By my damned hands, which blindly write them thus.

Writing, slowly, is my only relief,

But it is also a burden, in an obsessive cycle,

Where each word that is born seems to already die,

And I, in deep silence, continue to write.

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