In my trouser pockets
the uncontainable silence
of the sad capitals
roars.

In the midst of the scorching death-rattle
no one knows
how with no likelihood of any punishment
love is stabbed in a destitute lane,
a lift
or a downtown candystore
filled with artificial flowers.

The homosexual’s cry
is lost in the multitude,
splits in two,
shatters to smithereens,
as he falls down in the most expensive suburbs
of company managers
with their two lovers.

No one can speak for two
consecutive minutes without being heard;
no one can talk of the soul
or reveal their skin punctured and worn
by so much forgotten mercy.

One minute’s silence
is enough for the 130
workers crushed
by an avalanche of garbage.

The immense sea of silence
doesn’t fall from the sky,
doesn’t rise from some hell
of the earth’s dark depths;
it awakes each day,
has a piss
and survives.