Chapter 2
My daughter, you who have found
my skeleton scattered in poems
and from time to time have picked up its candy ribs,
the sweet screams of my absence,
and have sculpted new names in the shadow that pursues me;
you who, lacking the sky, know that it also rains.
I began to write this to you
under an umbrella,
standing in the middle of the street,
wondering if anyone can correct the rain.
Some drops should carry accents,
those that cool the thought,
those that linger.
You already know that on Tuesdays crosses abound,
that doves prefer to commit suicide
on any given Tuesday, so as not to cease being doves.
You already know about me that I always doubt if I have a shadow.
That there is a castle in not knowing how to cry
and we are always kings of what we could not be.
My daughter, today I write to you from a room buried within myself,
sometimes rented out by deaths without synonym,
verses that begin by dying
and they die and they die
and they never do it well.
I had a spider dream, yesterday.
My daughter, you know that spiders weave their web blindly.
Today is Tuesday, today
I hang from my blood.
That's it.
My daughter, how ours are the words of silence.
