They call it the Land of Love .
Is there such a thing, so mad,
so utterly lost ?
Other than noon, than moon,
a light not defined by time ?
In this strange world, I, alone
know nothing.
I live inside a shadow,
treat it like a solid thing,
and certainly don’t ask
for understanding.
I see the child with his father,
safe in the heat of his skin,
his pulse is six days long.
This ache, incapable
of treachery, never stopped,
never stops asking.
About that desired country
cut in the shape of a wing,
that will never carry
the weight of his tiny breath.
About that irretrievable joy
cut from all possibility
already on the ground.
The nights keep hushing.
The stars keep falling.
Why can’t they bring
another answer,
a solider repose
than loss ?

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