A writer travels, one day
in the blood of women
His papers burn
Melancholic songs quiver
in his hands
cry in water
to become his favourite ink
Monotonous as he walks
Monotonous as he lives

How can he, then, write a story he does not know
?when it falls in his hands and disappears
,How does he see in her hands the papers of the past
?and what brings him near her
?How does the face in his hands disappear
?How does she leave

He does not ask now- he is not expecting an answer
?Who shall answer or ask
... No question
... No answer
He returns now in his sad pain, killed
on a lost old book of poetry
?He returns now… from where
?Does he then ask where he comes from
!No, he does not ask
But he has now returned
in his face part of him, or of what he has left behind
something from the books of women...
And here is the evening
returning vague near his eyes
He, in his dazzled ambiguity
is a voice of miserable singing
…………………………………….
…………………………………….
And he returns, no longer a writer
And he returns, no longer monotonous