I can't reread my old poems the being that wrote them distanced herself from me, with my very own hand I chased her away. I couldn't stand to see her wallowing in this reality without churches without God I replaced myself with another, but at vespers time I look for a green expanse concealed inside my mind or some tree bark and I make the pagan sign of the cross. At times reality catches me in the middle of the act and stuffs down my throat its five-cornered red stars. I barely manage to get home, I vomit them one by one I flush them down with all I got. And everything, everything (an old saying around here has it) purges out into the big black sea.