have you seen today the papers leaving the desk
with a tricky appearance?

you translated their fever in our language
and it seemed the long story of the recycle bin
can be a weapon in the hands of a master in arts

your lungs are waiting for a transplant of words

I can really grasp
the way you undo the morning light
on your purple screen

and you tell me of the Brazilian dance
you never learned because your heart
knew a rhythm which cannot be followed
without an earthquake