THE EXILE DIARIES
24th of November 1948
Stony day, stony words;
caterpillars climb up the wall;
a snail carries its home
goes out of its door;
it can stay, it can leave.
Everything is the way they are.
Nothing exists
the nothing isn’t soft
it’s stony.
Everything is forgotten before said
silence isn’t a refuge.
The stool has its patience.
Rain comes,
washes the roof tiles
under which the birds roost,
takes along the weight of the unsaid;
the toothbrush is sad
like everything else.
We pretend we don’t see it;
we light the lamp.
Libros Libertad 