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.