# 122 (English)

the thin line that separates me
made of water
is called the name
and it’s certainly the silence
my property over this edge
where others walk

the sleepy vacuum
in the land when it opens its womb
to the exile prayer
it’s also called the silence
the guess
of my memory
in others

this exact moment that borders me
the words not said
make the air of myself
unpronounced
and the gestures under the table
are others’ silence
that defines me

this hard task
of keeping the sight corners
in balance with the stones
the heat of the chest
in front of other’s fire that like mine
doesn’t finally burn