Now that you die in me,
And your steps, even your words
Ceased to inhabit the old forest house.
I wonder if the march of sounds, at night, seeing that we were dressed with the same skin, nailed to the wet floor, starving of burning between roots and shadows,
Would stop waiting for dawn?
And i saw you distant when you left, but you never said no.
One day you will return, eternal, through the path of beasts
Just to sit in the word you’ve learned
And the chair of bones i’ve become.
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