Hand over your mouth
You look at the gothic picture you put on the wall
You drew brushstroke after brushstroke
They seem to define the limits of your story
You have crossed the straight, the oblique, the diagonal.
From a distance, they’re not so different.
You seem to have heard verses from Dante or Homer
or in the kingdom of surrealist thinking.
In a corner of the picture, someone is to blame
Kneeling on the water a soft hand caresses
As the stone that cast makes ripples
Break your wounded whispers
You turn and do not look at the wall of the cave
You see that other light
– By Eduardo Escalante of Chili