A star explodes in a small plaza and a bird loses his eyes and falls. Around him men

cry and watch the new season arrive. The river runs and drags between its

cold and confused arms the dark matter accumulated from years and years

behind windows.

A horse dies and his soul flies to heaven smiling with his large teeth of dew-stained 

wood. Later, among the angels, they will grow him black silky wings with

which to shoo away flies.

Everything is perfect. Being shut away in a small hotel room, being wounded,

 discarded, and powerless, while outside the rain falls, sweet, unexpected.

What is it that arrives, that plunges down from above and fills the leaves with blood 

and the streets with gilded litter?

I know that I am sick with a heavy illness, full of bitter water, of an intemperate fever 

that whistles and frightens whoever listens to it. My friends left me, my parrot

has already died, and I cannot avoid the fleeing people and animals when

they see the terrible black radiance that stops my footsteps in the streets. I

always have to lunch alone. It is terrible.