TRIP TO SILENCE My voice is diluted in The opaque shelter of the night. Will there be any vestige on The worn-out skin of the future? A tiny phrase hanging from the parish facade That they raised four centuries ago? An affirmative sentence among The roots of a tree damaged By fire? Any word that they will confuse With a whisper? At the end of the road Silence is waiting with open arms. That ' s why I talk to myself Before shutting up forever.
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