I came, to have a smaller home,

a room wary of the seasons

and a hearth at which I spend the night

so the ashes won’t wound it.

I have a table waiting for me to sit at

and a glass before me that’s content with me.

The lone plant rests

a stem against the window, and the corner enfolds it

while it casts itself in all directions

surrendering itself to the fates that

would carry me to their banks.

There are no shelves for books to rest upon,

nor even a pillow for my head.

Away in the mountains, sheltered in the heights,

the eagle snatched

the hand I used a pillow.

Perhaps it has built a new nest for him

or prepared him evening tea,

but this no longer pains me.

“This is Good,” my teacher said

and he took me by the hand to show me

the blaze of morning that stammers between

our feet as we trample the remnants of night.


I came, to have a river nearby

into which I cast my dreams so it will bear them

in its arms and roll on by, carrying

them to the horizon.

But I think it takes them to God,

and I laugh like children do.

My teacher said: “This is good.

You are approaching the joy of forgetfulness.”

He taught me to comb the air with my fingers

and to hold water like a ball

without it seeping between my fingers.


I came, to have a song I play

when the rain of memories pours.

It clears regret from my heart

and grants me the whiteness of its hymn.

And when my thoughts wake me

it lowers its cooing to be certain that

I follow its prayers along with it.

I follow the same prayers

along with it

and with the room’s emptiness.

I am like a desperate organ that finds

solace when the hands of strangers

crash its keys.


The ceiling widens in my small home

and silence puts its lips on my forehead

to kiss me before I go to bed.

I affect serenity as if I were in

the arms of the Lord.


My teacher fell silent as he clutched my heart with his words.

He planted his eyes on my face like someone examining

a glass of water.

As always, my eyelids fluttered

and my eyes became blurred,

but my cheeks did not burn

from the salt of tears as they used to.


My teacher said,

“This is good,”

and left without taking note of my bewilderment.

He continued walking earnestly.

He melted into the horizon like the light

that rises from the body when

the soul departs.