The permission

As it was Sunday, it was she
The one who without tiresome pain
Calmly granted me a rest
Delivering me to my star

She remained with the many hours
Of the day and – of twilight
Of that very tiny world
Always full of many moments

Which don’t allow without escape
The other edges of consciousness
Which start to tear the theory

Trying to sow that insanity
Of loading to the fire the decency
Seeing that pain is what extinguishes.