I wrote them with my nail on walls

In the empty alcoves,

In the dark and in solitude,

without the solicitude

of the bull, the lion or the eagle

that worked so eager

for Luke, Mark and John.

These are verses without time,

Verses of the dust,

Of terrible thirst

And hunger for the ashes that burnt,

Verses of this very moment.

When my celestial nail was worn blunt and low

I wanted to let it grow

And it never grew back in place -

Or maybe I couldn’t recognize its face.

It was dark. In the distance, outside, I could hear the rain.

And my hand felt like a claw through the pain,

Incapable to extend,

So I forced myself to write with the nails of my left hand.