I can't drown this scream, I can't throw it out of the window, open the door so that the rain can scare away its pain, so that my entrails can free themselves from its sour taste.

I'd like to see him run through the streets, in love, with another face, lost in the mirror, unable to find doors for other arms to catch him, to lower his decibels, to turn it into a neighbourly chat.

How I wish I could come down, loaded with thrushes and canaries in a concert of clarities and my thoughts were a spring of crystalline voices singing to a flock of butterflies.

But it is not like that, the cry refuses to break the harmony of an afternoon with delirium, it nestles in the chinks of laughter, in the gaze it is shipwrecked, on the horizon, when the clouds prepare to wet the night.

The cry hides, it plays with my shadow, it no longer knows what to do with this body without a compass, that's why I take my pencil, I describe my loneliness, I undress it, I make it dance a dance with an unfit rest.

Already out of breath, suffocated by the pressure, I end up asleep and the cry slips over the poem.