I am
only
the memory
of a stone buried
among stinging nettles
on which the wind
escapes
its insomnia.
Wind and Soul
Wind comes
from the sea
with such vehemence,
and its elementary sounds infect
the silence of night.
Alone in your bed
you listen to it insistent
on touching the chimes,
crying and calling
as if lost without anyone.
Yet it is not he who has you
sleepless, but another force
in which your body is jailed,
a soft carapace that was
free breeze and recalls.
