This world.

A sound sometimes dry,
metallic,
at times rubbery,
has settled the morning for good.
It has darkened little by little
the songs of various birds,
the croak of the daily,
wind among hedges,
the green yearning.
A man places with inexhaustible precision
one tile after the another on the roof of the house.
He must be the owner.
His work is like no other,
constant, intended, without refrain.
The noise he makes has no echo,
but goes on a search,
in search of the dawn.
Those who live below
will be voices
that return, feeding on themselves
beneath this roof.