I take the repentance of roads
the landscape tears
the diagonal of fools
the folds of the page
the fracture of logics
the curves of the mind

I walk to rub out the paths
I clutch the ants of time in my fists
I talk without a guide to darken me
with the mystery of the words that precede me
a pedestrian with steps corrupted
by the neighbourhood of weeds and insects
a voyeur whose heart is twisted by the light of elsewhere
a falling man who talks to the abyss to slow down his fall

it is said that in the deep of forests
doors are squeaking
so I go forward in a loop
among the trees with crooked fingers
the hanged apprentice drags his rope
my sex is weeping on the dead trunks

voices move away one after another
and on my cloudy face
the small blue moon
of my smile strips off
while strides
zigzags leaps and capers
bind cockeyed connections
in the dialogue where my silence invites itself