While going my way,
searching an eternal flame
I confront an extraordinary trauma,
God does not live,
but dies in me daily.
There was green pain
in this condemned strangeness
as the young world moves on
dancing with joy.
It was not a coincidence
that intellectual anesthesia was not able
to bring good sleep.
So much passes by your city, existential traffic,
soaring above arguments,
but a chilled, far away voice
defends the crumbling palace of syntax.
The masks are crying from the split walls
languishing in the hopeless garden.
Wherever you go, the windows are closed
and the smoke rings rising from the chimneys of dirty homes.