The lost son

Who is hungry goes looking for bread.

And water for his thirst. The cold

he stops with wool and cotton

until his body softly groaning

is falling asleep. Blind

you still can taste, deaf you

can look from inside at outside

as all those without time. But

who is dreaming must wait. Who

is dreaming can only stare through

the window at a small sound

at the beginning of the street.

On the day that my son goes to sleep

I must sit on the side of his bed.

Then he tells me his dreams

asks me if it is good.

Then I don't know whose

word it is that is moving

in the dark.

Then I don't know

whose is the hand

on his forehead.