When I came from my land
    if I really came from my land
    (am I not dead there?),
    the rippling of the river
    murmured faintly to me
    that I sould remain
    there where she parted from me.

    The pale dead
    not vanishing in the afternoon
    they seemed to tell me
    that it was impossible to return
    because everything is the result
    of already having been born there.

    When I came, if I really came
    from somewhere going to somewhere else
    the world turned, alien
    to my small self
    and in its turning I realized
    that no one ever goes away
    or comes back from anywhere.

    That we carry things along with us
    the treasure box of our life
    a rigid frame of bronze
    around our most anonymous cell
    and a call, a laugh, a voice
    resounds incessantly
    inside our depeest walls.

    New things which happen,
    whet our hunger for basic food.
    Our discoveries are masks
    over an even darker reality,
    that wound we bear
    on the skin of our souls.

    When I came from my land,
    I didn't come - I got lost in space
    in the illusion of having left.
    Poor me, I never left
    I'm still there, buried
    beneath the gentle words
    beneath the black shadows
    beneath the golden ornaments
    beneath the generations
    beneath my own self. I know,
    this living being, deceived
    and deceitful.