It should be mysterious and glittering, different
from these grey days, drowned in vague water.
Mr. Verde has walked these streets,
thin, tall, picturing distant miladies
pale flowers, to fill high towers…
Round and short, I climb Alexandre Herculano street
I think how clean all surfaces look, in the anti-adherence of everything
Bile, blood, sweat and the remaining secretions are the same
In spite of passing centuries, only death
Comes now amongst the most washable linoleum and the coldest chirurgical steel.
We live the illusion of the remoteness of pain.
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