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| [Acest text ar trebui citit în english]
In the table runner
wells in the air are opened. The breeze of November is full of black holes and my heart devours gallons of sweat in the cornices. In the table runner the moon takes the appearance of the barefoot girl that walks in the grass seeking the nectar of the land, with the soles of its feet. My stomach murmurs elegies in this night that is initiated soft and noisy as a young lover as a furtive boy, as a bird that was thrown of the branch seeking the heart of the worms, seeking the tailoring of the eggs of the toad. For moments the sky is an enormous well from which take their forms the infinite holes that are opened in the soft marrow of the space. The night advances and I agonize sweetly among the blankets. Gocho Bersolari
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