Through the paintings of saints hung on the wall
my pupils tear out an “ay!” of nightfall;
and in a feverish tremble, with crossed arms,
my being receives a lazy visit from Nonbeing:

A whiney fly in the tired furniture,
I don’t know what fatal legend it wants to pour out:
an illusion of Orients fleeing assaulted;
a blue nest where larks die upon being born.
In an old armchair my father is seated.
Like a Dolorosa, my mother enters and exits:
And upon seeing them I feel something that doesn’t want to leave.

Because before the wafer that is the host made by Science,
comes the host, the wafer made by Providence.
And the visit is born, it helps me live well...