A window for seeingA window for hearingA window like a wellthat ends deep in the heart of the earthand opens out into this expanse of recurring blue kindnessA window that overfills the tiny hands of lonelinesswith its nightly gift, the perfume of generous starsand from thereone could invite the sun to the geraniums in exileOne window is enough for meI come from the land of dollsfrom under the shade of paper treesin the garden of a picture bookfrom the dry seasons of barren friendship and lovein the dusty alleyways of innocencefrom the years the letters of the colorless alphabet grewbehind the school’s tubercular desksfrom the moment the children could writethe word “stone” on the blackboardand the panicked starlings flushed from the ancient treeI come from among the roots of carnivorous plantsand my brain is still overflowingwith the terrified voice of the butterflythey crucified in a notebookwith a pinWhen my trust hung suspended by the thin rope of justiceand all over townthey were chopping up the heart of my lampswhen they bound the childish eyes of my lovewith the black blindfold of the lawand from the agitated temples of my desirespurts of blood were scattering everywherewhen my life was nothing morenothing more than the tick-tock of the wall clockI realized I must, I must, I mustlove madlyOne window is enough for meA window on to the moment of awareness and seeing and silenceNow the walnut saplinghas grown tall enough to tell its young leavesthe meaning of the wallAsk the mirrorthe name of your saviorIsn’t the earth, trembling under your feetlonelier than you are?The prophets brought their prophecy of desolationwith them into our centuryThe ongoing detonationsand the poisoned cloudsare these the reverberations of holy verses?O friend, O brother, O my kinwhen you arrive at the moonwrite the history of the mass murder of the flowersDreams are alwaysthrown down from the heights of their own naïvetéI smell a four-leaf cloverthat has grown on the gravestone of worn-out meaningsWas the woman buried in her shroud of waiting and chastity my own youth?Will I again climb the stairs of my own curiosityto greet the good God strolling on the roof?I sense time has passedI sense that “the moment” is my share of the leaves of historyI sense that the table is an illusory gap between my hair and the hands of this sad strangerSay something to meWhat does one who grants you the kindness of a living bodywant from you in return but an understanding of what it means to feel alive?Say something to meIn the sanctuary of my windowI am one with the sun