I listen to my life as if

it unfolded in the adjacent room.

I remember the closing door

when the space turned holy

by his fast breathing.

In front of me, below the little balcony

dead loves filling the sea

over which invisible pulleys

pull the islands over

the light-blue foreground of dawn.

For a moment, the night still

holds the muzzled day captive

and the house where Thrush was born

remained muffled on the ground.

Everything here that aroused us

will stay with their windows closed

with their foggy window panes-eyes

whatever dazzling touched our skin.

Then the seed of Eros fell

in the poem and

everything was transformed;

the tiring quatrain

the gray weather

and the wheelchair of the disabled

woman that panted

climbing to the stars.