My body's bones are planted in the desert, every single one of them.
They stand straight out of the desert sands, all lined up, one after another.
To speak of a skeleton would be absurd.
My skin, for its part, was buried and has been walked over. Fancy that. My skin, which once waved high like a flag, almost a crown . . .
The wind holds my vertebra in its grip. Even the sun shining between them is bare-boned, a desert sun, infused with the desert.
Maybe we could wash this desert, or perhaps tie it up, gag it. My skin guarantees this space. As for the rest, we'll see.

Translation: 2008, Richard Zenith