Spleen

I'm closing my eyes, not to see the rain falling
on the rags of autumn; not to see the trees
abandoning themselves to the wind-
ragged soldiers which forgot about fear,
abandoning themselves to the desperate courage,
when there is left no other hope;
not to curse the leaden sky that put on my shoulders
the overwhelming eternity of this rainy week.

I close my eyes, listening to the whistle of the wind,
to the ropes, vibrating like a ghostly song of sirens
wailing after their lovers drown in the hungry sea's womb.
I imagine that I'm a bird hovering in the sky
followed by the killer eye of the hunter
and, closing my eyes,
I let the silver bullets of rain
penetrate to the marrow the words.