Although at times my ancestral, true calendar
returns to my memory,
I do not manage to make it to the grottos
that were once my only sphere
and I do not succeed in encountering in the countryside
even one solitary poem,
nor one single trace that tells me
the fingerprints of my hands.

I live for that here
as if waiting

already without the temporal barrier that keeps me
from saving the moment of meeting each other
with word and chisel that makes us remember
that nothing occurs in vain.