Fragments from the year 1989

. . .


Mute,
my head covered,
I stand with a pebble on my lips
in front of a wall of fire
and oblivion


counted
among the helpers
of death


. . .


Take the ash from me,
take the weight from me it's not
my fault, let me carry
to the other shore


of the wound: penitence,


pity


. . .


Dawn, the color of the Seine,
color of wormwood and gall