To contemplate what is lost is to try to give meaning to what remains and who we are. How one becomes what one is is the subtitle of Nietszche's Ecce Homo. However, it is difficult to see what is desired, the ruins or the half-finished works, because they always evoke the ghost of the complete building: we see (imagine) what is not in reality. And yet, perhaps, there is no greater treasure than what we never had or what we had and lost or ruined by chance or our wrong practices, and we are able to put into words. I like to think, like Hölderlin, that the only permanent thing is established by poetry. As the night and the desert advance, the words help to display new showcases of my Museum of losses.

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EXILE

It does not hurt

the night of the meat nor the thistle

in the wounds.

It hurts the tendons to know

that there's not

where to return

There is no body that can withstand that distance.

FORCES OF WEAKNESS

Through the grave tunnel of the night

in copious black

I reach the bottom of your dream

and I hug your body and your sad limbs

who sleep with her,

who dream without me.

Those who are able to contain desire

that can destroy them,

Are they stronger than us?

Or is it your desire

weaker than ours?