Cane Fields

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.

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