I
Suddenly the silence turns into light,
as if strains of music, as if a subject in blue.

II
To find light within phrases,
the harmony, the sound of the universe,
so that we can hear the silence,
our own human silence,
so that we can, poet,
step on a page of blood.

III
Almost visible touchable pink of the poem,
an ogive, bewitched, on the shoulders of a dove.

IV
We forsake many things
because we grow towards the sun.
Amongst what we leave behind,
without piety, without remorse,
exists the innocence, the child;
like a sad little bird,
which sings in the bare light
the elegy of conscience.

V
What music, what music fades away in the distance,
ruled by the wings of the bird on the horizon?

VI
Write only what is brief,
in the short light of our life,
that never disturbs the children
and does not wet the margins of one’s vision.
So we need your notebooks,
to dive among the seaweeds,
within the deepest roots
that will light the green of the sea.

VII
Comes from the lucidness, the shine, the breast,
the slow puberty, within the center of scare.

VIII
The pupil of a gazelle
tears the rocks in the horizon.
Violet, the reflexion of the light,
to the east side of the sky,
where the deepest blue hides within the womb.

IX
In Autumn: the flicks of dry pulps;
on the remains of the life blood, the richness of the fruit.

X
In the silence which opens among the bell knell,
there is a dead little bird, to replace the child.