Lying thought of the sand, the earth, the mud.
He closed his eyes.
Thought in his heart
and he heard the throbbing in his ears:
felt like he was pumping blood,
blood that watered his brain,
brain that reminded him of sand, earth and mud.
He counted the beats:
sixty in a minute now
and eighty
and ninety in a minute later.
Agitated, he opened his eyes.
Sat on the edge of the bed
and thought of the sand,
on earth
and in the mud.
Eighty and went back to bed
just to get up
of the pang of pain that went through him
from the chest to the neck, everything.
He joined.
He wanted to run, but in his move
his pain subsided.
Ninety-little pulse now
and eighty and seventy and something later.
He went back to his bed, breathed.
He thought of his breathing:
inspired, exhaled,
inspired, exhaled,
inspired, exhaled,
inspired,
exhaled
He almost fell asleep.
He closed his eyes.
Eyes heavy as covered with dirt
sand scraped throat
thick muddy space, everything.
And he remembered: I breathe, I spit,
inspiro, spiro,
inspiro, spiro. If I do not inhale and spit
I do not breathe
I should not sleep.
But he fell asleep.
And he forgot to breathe:
ninety eighty seventy something
sixty fifty now
forty and thirty years later.
Twenty, ten and less and all.
Brain of earth, sand and mud.
