The mornings spread their image
into the eyes of the sun;
into the light of my darkness;
in the forgotten days of the memory
I find myself counting the dew
and making plans for its
wedding.

Song of my hand,
I am mute, I am myself again
in the presence of nothingness,
and I am counting
intensely
the dew
that makes plans
for my breath.

Sleep well, my Poem,
sleep well,
on the dew of my eyes.
Tomorrow I am going to teach you
how to forget this day,
how to walk beyond nothingness
in a world full of travesties.