A point. A voice. A white lament that raises its hand to the sky and looks for a clear response. The voice rolls with the wind, it waits pausing between the gray roofs and murmurs your broken name. The point grows with each step, crosses patios and celestial mountains, it seems to hide itself among stale and dirty letters; but no, it hides behind your eyes. The light turns pale. It marks its diary and yawns with desire. The path begins; it is naked of mud, barks at the silence with a hoarse voice and returns to lose itself among the silhouettes of madmen. [The path was your sky eyes, but the sky doesn’t exist here on earth.] The pause begins, it complains about the weather and returns to sleep among the debris of verses and the caresses of dogs. The rain sighs with blue lips. The day grows long; it pauses many times in front of the mirror. And I ask you, tiny mystery, where did you hide my old man’s voice, where did your dreams of cheese run, where… The complaint arrives, begins slowly and then stretches out like the drizzle in May.