To write is to go
where the visible stops.    
 
To write
it's packed
not knowing where we are going.       
 
It is to be
in front of the great dry stone wall
lair of vipers
and mixed treasures.     
 
It is to arrive at the port
after wandering
from shore to shore
away from the storms
and other sufficiencies.      
 
It's not to be there
when we expect you
finger on the seam
slow erect
out of the traces of reflux.      
 
is to live
lightly
leaning on his heart.      
 
so weak you are
you will provide
to your need for elevation,   
this space
where to breathe great hikes
in the sun of the mind.      
 
To write
it's not to be there anymore.      
 
To write
it is to be a cork
on the sea of ​​outrages
to feel with all his fingers
the crevices of the rubbish
warning signs
smoothness of the soul.      
 
To write
it is also,
Alone,   
to cross the threshold of his house
for nothing.      
 
To write
is to seek what we have already found,    
simple village idiot
in search of photons of light.      
 
1102