Friday, January 18, 2013

"Chronicle of an ordinary pedestrian" by Harold Alva Viale


He lit the night
The route of turned off pedestrians between traffic
Shaken like a reflection multiplied in smell
The fury of an arrow stopped on his tongue
There is nobody
Only the shadow of his nightmares
Only the sadness of all that he appoints
As a high relief of terror
At the door of his palms
The certainty of death
Its skeleton
Approaching as the shot of God
Approaching like a spittle
On the walls of his own skull
The loneliness of showcases
The rancor of history
On the grim runway of his paces
Your street in his pupils
Your fear
There is nobody
Only this city
Only the cables connected like veins
In the fauces of anonymous suiciders
His breath on windows
His eyelids consumed by this surface
Of beings that do not assimilate
The sword in the throat
The tusk in the throat
The bullet in the throat.

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