With a clean tong I lick

the sap from my eyes

like a mucous child

I refuse the lie

that passes like the sucking of the wind that clears the memory

of the leaves that a woe

summer long

gave shade

against the much to clear

sunlight of reality

With slow thoughts I slide

through the old corridors

while windows flash

in the wall where, as I look

enlighten new corridors

Now there are those

images I heard of

when a song sang about death

but now they move

and when I approach

I see them walking

right in front of me

and I look at my own backside

and move my hands

like those who spread away

and disappear behind the walls.