Past the benches' bundles
and the holes in the earth the workers left
the shoe on the newspaper's wet
headlines
past the broken lamp
past the attar in the niche of the pile of stones
mother of the murdered one
illuminated by candles
along the river
the pigs' grunts in the dark
the locked shop
the arcade's clatter
above the flash of asphalt
in the rain of light
and the open window
that emits groaning
lifts the loneliness of the walker
to unattainable heights
beneath the bridge and into the viaduct
a quite faint light
flickers in the exit makes the heart
beat so loudly
that he himself gives a start
in the ring of mimosa
and a dead pigeon
he pushes on
to this moment's reality
counts to the stairs
and the door
he is sitting behind
and writes himself up in the book of dreams