Exile is born at this moment.
It can be read in the features of the alien walking
without enabling images
to possess his mind,
wanting to dig a road in the snow,
to make sure his pulse is not a flake of ice.
His sorrows melt with the horizon,
undressing its whiteness,
wearing the light of the sun
when spring emerges,
rising with its mad vegetation.
There’s a cry from the throat of the earth,
a melody played by the roots
of the city, which does not listen
but talks and talks,
flows and flows,
builds mountains of oblivion.