IN SPITE OF WRATH
Between the shadows and space, a young girl has possessed a strange heart, with dreams that make her pale, her head filled with the rage of grief, her grief. For two years she has nursed the same far thirst, the same fever and anguish with a word that hasn’t left her lips since then. She has written letters over and over, with a shadow in her soul that she could give up so as to have him back. Her nights have been long unmixed with oblivion, becoming a part of the atmosphere as a leash becomes part of a dog’s neck. She has called to things that have vanished, to beings that have vanished. Death is drawn to sound, its footsteps and its clothes echo, hushed like a tree. She hardly sees, but it seems to her that its song has the color of wet violets. Its gaze is etched with the moisture of a violet leaves and its color of exasperated winter. It goes about in the earth, riding a broom and lays waiting by the harbor, dressed as an admiral. Time has lapsed, the wounds, the void. And th...