The same tumbles a thousand times, and all of them
In the midst of a cold loneliness
Learning from emptiness its estate
Burying but not the Colossus of Rhodes
But our own eyes among the people
Denying in loud voice the sentence
That for great affection and patience
The erudite refuses to condemn.
Only the room without way outs is closed
It is judgment and crying without consolation
Life that doesn’t want to be in grief
The bird that wearily looks at the ground
And the heart resisting to ice
For the one who knew his wounds.