I pretend that everything lost becomes a poem.

Wounds like hurricanes have a name. And even though I ignore that around me abysses are born, I was originally blemished by happiness, by its inclement summit.

The invading substractions of memory. The struggle of the root. The antiquity of silence . . .

I don't put flowers in the cemetery of dreams, but I go on in spite of all the quicksands of the spirit.

The guilt that does not allow you to leave is love.

And now fog, rain, absence . . .

The unbalance called beauty, the terrible abandonment of the sacred, the igneous rose guiding me in desperation . . .

I know the path will end up finding me.

As all that becomes visible to die.

Translation: 2008, Nicolás Suescún