Death does not let you say Goodbye
Let no one come tell me I am guilty of this or that.
True, the noise of knees falling on ground
embellishes the soul, the noise of teardrops
on blackened grass paves the way
to what is always a return.
Let no one come with his bouquets
of dry flowers to leave on the grave
where there should be a corpse, but there is no corpse,
only eyes who know how terrible it is to look at nothing.
So, let no one come to reveal what was disclosed before.
Don't come to build walls around the house of the one
who before being young was already old.
Let no one stir the evil word whose center is an abyss,
whose edge is a storm.
Don't try to close the sutured wound, or bring evil violins
to sweeten the unhealthy melody recognized
by my agonizing chest: the asthma where my winter rears
its dark birds, grows its fields of fog,
that night and day
can no longer wait, it wants to be closed.