I enter my church sculpted in a mountain of salt
with its pillars standing on the left and on the right
with their black lodes and gray bead clusters
my shoulders hitting the scratched pulpit
with godly out of limit thirst

I bow down
in front of those already forgotten
of those keeping their words never murmured
of those with split heels for whom a caress brings pain
my eyelids palpitate three times
and once again for the sake of the man who learned not to cry

turn around human face
once you were a young man with too long fingers
once you were an old man with milk teeth
look at me as if I were the noose that you used to hang yourself
and never died

Categories: My poems in 2016, Uncategorized | Tags: | Leave a comment

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