It has stopped raining now. From the window the world is in drops:
a face without nose, eyes, lips. Only these minute tears
over trees and houses. One in particular glitters
where somebody cries from his armchair
dignified, still only uncertain if the house resembles
those he lived in the past and which he confuses.

He's not crying out of nostalgia, but for the entire weight
of the rain, as if he were the roof
that bears and peels off.
As if the entire building, bloated with water and rock
testified to a wrong.

A creature can fret over this, lay awake all night
or replicate the desolation in a dream. Be in a gorge.
Remain there in the earth, under the rain that comes.