The warm glow
that his gaze gives off,
dying, desert.
Cold hands
Wounds on the surface of the skin.
The regret of time on her back.
Incandescent.
Gloomy halo,
like trails of ashes,
that break off
and leave after each other,
and leave after each other
and leave… ¦â¦..
The lost time is withered,
without moons or dawns.
Helplessness of the broken embrace.
The storm in your dry eyes,
bitter aftertaste of distance,
Damn geography
confines us to solitude,
without dawns, nor lilies.
Damn geography,
confines us to silence,
and post-industrial landscapes,
without presents or futures.

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