I truly think that if I had a whole century at

          my disposal

I’d finish, perhaps, this voyage from my door to

          the opposite kiosk

and perhaps, to grow wings, you need to touch

a wall and think how short your life is;

birds started that way.

Of course, we were one of the first families who


during the great upheaval; we searched the floor for

           the money to buy tickets

it was getting dark and they often made fun of me

           since I always looked elsewhere;

they didn’t know the familiarity of not seeing things

           straight in the eyes

as when you converse with your mother while

you leaf through a dirty magazine in the next room;

you were always at the mercy of a tiny stain on your

           new cloths

or you drag your life like a strange bathtub meant

           for the room upstairs

a good mannered man crazy and joyless in your


a barren woman who cries by the door, sniffing in

            her snot,

just to hear a child, until a small tiny star takes my

            last argument away

that the world isn’t nice at all.

When I finally decided to start it was already late.

All Homeric adventures were sang many years ago

only a few flashlights with their yellow light were left

and the nostalgia of a world beyond this world. I

of course tried to familiarize myself plucking poultry

or sitting on the toilet with the rats where I used to die 

          a little at a time

an impossible thing since each time they rang the bell

I always appeared in front of them, a corpse full

           of life;

then I took after the fly and its daily chores or someone

who killed and after he went to eat at the restaurant,

having a letter in his pocket, the letter with the divine

confession that no one ever received.

Another time I’ll narrate to you about the witness who

was very thirsty in the desert, they say, until he died

in order to write his name in the water.