At times your head assumes a decidedly
perverse appearance: there’s a new light
in your glance that makes new characterizations
of your illness doubtful.

I put my hand in the air that separates us
almost touching such unripeness: you don’t
see it, you are too touched by your illness.

I don’t withdraw my hand; I leave it there suspended
almost as if it were a void to defy, and
often I see your soul shifting,
the one you loathe to enlarge.

It births nothing; it always stays the same
that head of yours refined with special glasses
it was almost a party, your feeling
ill.

I withdraw, I birth no new
desire to charm you; in your illness you are
a zebra moving tense in its
park.

I return my hand to its side, I see
specially reawakening lights and lanterns
over your face; it’s late now you can’t
arrive at health.