Our poetry stood dead beside us.
I had taken the handkerchief from her chest
to wipe my eyes.
We were all sad by need.
The nullity of solidarity made the voices
accompany each other
to the bottom of wine glasses where, dizzy,
they were transforming themselves from whispers into giggles.
Our poetry was now on the verge of vestige
and each of us was living in the worms that still
had not yet grown up inside her.
It was a pity for such a great heap of love
not to feed some young poets.