I walk on in shade, filled with light: does day exist?
Is this my tomb or my maternal dome?
A pulsing beats against my skin like a cold
shard that sprouts, hot, red, tender.
Perhaps I’ve not yet been born,
or have always been dead. Shade rules me.
If this is life, what could death be?
I don’t know what I’m running after
with such unending anxiousness.
Chained to a suit, it seems I run after
nakedness, to free myself from what can never
be me, making my eyes cloudy and absent.
But the black cloth, distant, goes with me,
shadow with shadow, against shade, until I reach
naked life growing from nothingness.