I wrote them with my nail on walls
In the empty alcoves,
In the dark and in solitude,
without the solicitude
of the bull, the lion or the eagle
that worked so eager
for Luke, Mark and John.


These are verses without time,
Verses of the dust,
Of terrible thirst
And hunger for the ashes that burnt,
Verses of this very moment.
When my celestial nail was worn blunt and low
I wanted to let it grow
And it never grew back in place -
Or maybe I couldn’t recognize its face.



It was dark. In the distance, outside, I could hear the rain.
And my hand felt like a claw through the pain,
Incapable to extend,
So I forced myself to write with the nails of my left hand.