And only the silence remains of what has already been said

Original Poetry

I look at the falling rain,
the rain that falls through
from my open window in the bedroom.
The rain that splashes,
it wet me,
clean me

                                I feel the rain that falls
                                                     and I close my eyes.
                                                              The room could be flooded,
                                                                        Then, I would drown.

Who would care if I swim?

With such humidity, the furniture should be removed
from the head, the wood becomes moldy.
The paint is peeling.
First it wrinkles,
weak texture that rubs against friction.

Then, it hangs
and then it falls.

I look at the drops that slide on the wall,
Drops that fade in the brick
blackened
Chlorinated drops
that discolor the gray universe

I watch the rain that falls.
Between sheets, I receive it.

It has been said so much of this tense calm,
that nothing else remains to be said.
The words ran out
and there is only the silence of what has already been said.

He looks at the falling rain.
He, between sheets, receives it.

From Him, it has been said so much
and He does not look at us anymore.
An old scab covers the emotions,
an old crust avoids his gaze.

Outside or inside
there is nobody.

My clothes fell to the floor.
The bed received my body.
The fourth began to become small
so narrow and dark
like a grave.

I close my eyes and remember:
walking bodies
invented names,
hands in the pockets,
perforated pockets

There is nowhere to go.
The rain falls.

The rain that looks behind the window.
The rain that wet my body, my body asleep.
Between the sheets, I do not know when I'll wake up ...
For what.