April 1979

The morning is always sad and golden.

Silence accumulates around my mouth.

The clouds blow over the mountains.

The mist doesn't lift.

And what about the sadness in the eyes?

Love that happens without swellings?

The velvet ropes of silence,

tunnels of ether and hands...

How can I face the walls, the pencils, and

the smell of my own body for one more day?