The Stranger

This nameless
Soundless
Body
Is empty
It dreams of a shadow
And a space
Where to spin its scents
In Solitude
And leave

It walks
Without paces
It speaks
Without lips

With sheets in its hands
Ruins in its folds
With lost stairs
Wounded evenings
Dust
 In the heart of
An echo of a remote time
It heeds to the call
Whenever the rhythms of the poem are aspired
In its blood

It dreams
Slouchy and blind
Fall down like autumn’s complaints
On the wall of life
And heaps like them
In the graveyard of
Tears

There
On the highest peaks of arrogance
It stands
Hostage of absence
Breaking its stream
On a clay body
And dying,
A martyr
In the graveyard of Days