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Reflections from a room aseptic (no emotion) My mother

Maybe life is a continuous

correct and correct.

Perhaps the moments that seem
forgotten
too far,
have destiny in a new life in the time of termination

and rest. Who knows what dreams

mind crippled
hours locked up in a world disinfected
chest rusty and abandoned, perhaps
now without a key, sealed,
full of memories, travel,
of a life that has marked me.
Perhaps the years, the steps taken,
I just mentioned or hinted
of a dying memory,
hour live again, and nothing makes sense


not speak and those eyes and stare at me.

I'm out, I'm alive
,
are in force.
But something has been left behind me

and clouds

cracks and there, in a corner on a green armchair

in an aseptic room.