We, even before get born, fear silence;
that we do not even hear, a sound of a small heart beside us, knocking the emptiness of this infinite darkness.
That we could not fall in sleep, even if we were sleeping above a kiln, without a cover above our bodies;
that’s a genetic fear of loneliness,
of facing the whole cosmos, in its strongest cases of dreariness;
with a naked, exposed, trembling body.
As a forgotten dry cane field
we line up: the humans;
sorrowfully, we teeter toward each other -whenever the wind passes through our ribs- without touching,
we crack and howl, that’s it.
My heart is a Cactus without thorns,
dry without a defence,
and the water inside it, only for sorrow.