I touch the untouched face of memories.

 And yet it changes the direction of the winds.

Hands roam around gestures.

The smoothness of the hours follows the course of time.

An omission at the junction of the roads

No return burns beneath your feet.

They are incredible places where you can reach without a guide,

just by the casualness of everything, just by the smell,

only from the plates with rounded edges.

An iron noose comes to anchor the marks on the chest

that awaken the passage of time,

registered with clocks without hands,

to sweat out old habits,

Like a trap or a knife puller

Breaking the days so short.

With my hands full of nods,

I touch the untouched face of memories.

And I write. I am writing the composition of familiar silences

so that my different voice is not trivialized.