Death has come
(and you can have success, despite it,
if one gives everything one has).
The week has also come,
and with it an evolution of the lowest temperatures.
They’re still talking about precipitation,
winds from the north;
we don’t rule out frost.
Unmistakable dreamlike atmosphere:
women and men turned into red birds,
that cross an equally red cloud study us.
All of this on an island, full of congressmen,
who improbably decide to finally throw in the towel;
they’re not crying,
they’re chasing each other.
We wander the streets.
In the room in back is a famous editor,
he’s a fish;
he’s rotting: he was our friend.
He’s…spread-out like, right?;
he’s as tall as a ceiling.
“Let me feed myself utopia,”
he seemed to be saying to us.
Empty chairs, in the room
(and, in front of our diver silences, black tapestries).
“Why have you deserted?”
when all of us present referred, afterwards, to him.
When we left, with all the members of the factory,
shoes that chew, through a hallway:
the mechanisms have started to buzz.
And an elevator carries us as though bewitched.
and death itself dreams of being the flagship of our eternity.
I tried to say winter,
I said silence:
only winter is indispensable.