I look at my hands: they're just not weird
Because they are mine. But it's so weird to stretch them
So, slowly, like these sea anemones ...
Suddenly closing them
Fingers like carnivorous petals!
However, I only get this impalpable food time with them,
That sustains me and kills me, and that keeps secreting my thoughts
How spiders weave webs.
To what world
Do I belong?
In the world there are stones, baobabs, panthers,
Humming waters, wind blowing
And overhead the clouds improvising endlessly.
But none of this says: “I exist”.
Because there are only ...
Time breeds death, and death begets the gods
And, full of hope and fear,
We perform rituals, we invent
Poems, poor poems
It mixes, confuses and disperses in the air ...
Neither in the sky star nor in the starfish
This was the end of Creation!
Who eternally weaves the fabric of such old dreams?
Who asks me this question?