I return to the white silence
of the red house
and it’s dawn.

A boy stands up and drinks
a man’s apprenticeship
dreams, accumulates images
keeps in a pocket
the silhouette of a fabulous fish
crossing the sky
of his room, for that
incomprehensible day
death already keeps
for his destiny.

These are the days
that leave no traces on the skin
with no duels in the sky
foreseen by the soul
no adulteries
no knives wandering
directionless
some insomniac dawn
down lightless streets
till meeting
the dumb profile
of a man
a tree
some child or other
lost
in a field of mud
foreseen three years before
in the feverish eyes
of a beggar.

And what do you say then
of the time marked
in fire
by the colour
of a season,
when my mother knitted
and sang
and there was no frost
on the balconies
no amulets
no birds trapped
in telephone boxes.

The light of the patio
was blue
as dawn entered.

And the dining room
was yellow:
it was my house.