I've expelled demons from my door, I'm ready for exile,
ready to see Shangri-La, the sand and dust of the barrio.
I'm ready to face the one I no longer hear from.
The year was hard. Time doesn't heal all wounds.
Smoke coils through the alleys, curtains are smirched with soot.
I have changed sides in secret, denied old relations.
I don't want the old rites, not really, I don't miss
Genghis Khan or the other killers. Every prayer was
left unanswered, but the one, wherever he might be, holds
the strings for a while, and the land will be renewed,
words will become wells again, words will become lions,
everything will happen all over again, he will become
part of the land the sea the signs me and the forest:
the seeds, the population of crevices, stabbing shadows,
abrupt ascents that lead to deep seas,
shredded curtains through which you can see distant
plantations, the swollen blood sun above the jungle,
other bloodthirsty beasts to whom we sacrifice,
just like we sacrifice to priests or parchment.