6 Oct, 11 | by BMJ Group
I can see: a frozen nose and few veins in the same place.
The bird without a beak outside of the window flutters and goes away.
I wish that outside of the window things will happen without a bird, not now…
His existential pain is growing like tree amidst baroque music.
This is new for him.
This is the room where the lions will come to eat his liver full of inflammable cells.
Now he knows how stiff the bone is upon the flesh.
Here things get in and out, in and out with no names or desire.
We can’t have eyes for this silence around his head made of memories.
We can’t even go after the marriage of the sunset.
Perhaps if I touch his flesh right now, everything will be like inside of a lamp: infinite, no more pain…
No one has ever opened the door at night to see the stones awaken by his disease.
You may think too much, you still wonder how to cure, how to comfort, but he knows: he already knows more…
He couldn’t find the fallen principles made of other lives to surprise the obstacles, the tact, the hand, the living.
He is the appetite of a simple chest fabricating particles and blood.
His lymphoma of darkness it’s now like a forest each time he breathes.
If I go inside I will never be back again…
by Rafael Bloise