“You believe in illness

in weariness

for good

You forget to breathe

You don’t move

You wait for the pain it comes

You watch it intently

as from the abyss of a hall

and it looks for your eyes

The room lurking

sighs in your stead

You feel drowsy

you rise you rise

you slowly enter the sky.”

“Every woman

has got something to hide

the tear of an abandoned fiancé

the shadow of a man

an ideal

an earthen urn

a ficus

shedding leaves she gathers

whose twigs she shakes with her hand

on windless days.”

(PILGRIMAGE 20)