I put by only questions
while the ground never answers
to me anything only swallows;

when its blue eyes
every new season,
mirror me another reason
for stop being alive,
another face always from marble;

only some passions, as little red drops,
rebelliously stain the white’s marvel,
from time to time;

afterwards buried themselves
because of unanswered love

in the same place with my childhood,
with my father so alone and so soon gone,
with my time and my dreams;

the ground always shirks
when I try to find out
from where comes out
its undying dumb hunger.