We wash our dead, our dead!

We make paper bags, alembics, sandpaper and words from their bones

The abstract reality of the walls – the chandelier of the sky – the sound reflected in the water

We mix our mortar like we are doing things bigger than our size

Sworn – promises were given – everything was irrationally dismissed

Above a fire – a swearing from the flames – a gothic wound – the embers of our chest

And our dead are the apocalypse scenario – the pendulum of time of our geography

Helpless puerperal – not a baby but fresh blood pouring from our womb

A raining cloud was hanging in the coffin – a lost continent in a steel box

Our dead were silent! The eye in the compass – the hunter in the cave – silent Ptolemy

A text in Sanskrit on the steles – the bat flower – dark history

And the screaming dead, Ida Nadi, Ida Nadi!